


If You Find Me Dead One Day, it's Probably His Fault

by OpticalCrown



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Black Cat AU, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn, as in the manga Black Cat, klance, let the stupidity begin, man this is gonna be so much fun to write
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7576480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpticalCrown/pseuds/OpticalCrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been over a year since Shiro and the Holts have gone missing, captured by the Galra crime syndicate. </p><p>Keith resigns (read: defects) from the secret organization Garrison, frustrated by the lackluster investigations. As a sweeper, he lives from bounty to bounty, determined to find Shiro and tell him something he's always, always wanted to say.</p><p>Meanwhile Lance continues his work as a skilled eraser for Garrison, helping the organization keep the world on its proper path by removing one target at a time. Underneath it all though, he wouldn't mind having a pretty wife, cute kids, and maybe even a house with a great backyard garden.</p><p>Unfortunately, these two idiots are about to cross paths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hate at First Sight

**Author's Note:**

> The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it would work.

He's barely broken even.

Again.

His fingers don't stop as he double-checks the numbers with his calculator, and he can feel the frown creeping up his mouth as the bounty money that _should have_ been pouring into his bank account is being diverted into random things like repairs and utilities.

The spreadsheet doesn't lie, and it's telling Keith that he better learn how to survive on practically air each day until the next bounty rolls by.

“Fuck this,” he mutters, shoving it all to the side of the desk. His head drops onto its surface with a dull _thud_ , and the look in his eyes grows somber as he stares out the window. The night sky is clear of all clouds right now, and the light pollution here is low.

Perfect for stargazing, and Shiro's favorite kind of weather.

Keith pulls a crumpled photo from his pocket, smoothing it out with the back of his gloved hand, not daring to let the oils from his fingertips deteriorate the image any further. On it, a black-haired man with an undercut is laughing loudly, seemingly unaware that he's grabbed Keith under the armpits and has lifted the panicked person up into an overhead swing. Even in the faded photo Keith's face is a blotch of red, but when Shiro asked about it, Keith balked and stuttered something about adrenaline and the heat of the moment.

Thinking about that moment softens Keith's expression, and he closes his eyes. He'll survive, like he always has.

“Patience,” he murmurs to himself. “Patience.”

His breathing starts to fall into a steady rhythm, and he whispers one last thing at the photo before his eyes fall shut.

 

“ _I miss you, Shiro.”_

 

The tawny-skinned man is thin and lanky, and the way his civilian clothes droop on him make him look even younger than he really is. He stands in the middle of the room with his back straight as a rod of iron, but arms held in a loose, unfocused salute.

“Blue, reporting.”

On a raised platform directly in front of him, his superior glares down at him. He tries not to laugh at how ridiculous and corny this would look like to anyone else – the grizzled, scarred veteran staring down from up high like some cliché, boot camp villain, waiting for his tiny subordinate to squirm – but he's already on the guy's bad side, so he makes an effort to keep quiet, cheeks puffing up a millimeter as he stifles his chuckles.

“Speak,” his superior declares, the sound ringing throughout the large space.

“Target was eliminated with no witnesses,” he replies. “I was unable to find any concrete evidence of Takashi Shirogane's whereabouts, but it seems that he has already escaped from Galra. As for the Holts, the target's ranking wasn't high enough to know their location.”

His superior's disappointment is subtle – the stiff mouth twitches; a clench in that brick-like jaw – but it's a remarkable feat of control for the ill-tempered general.

Takashi Shirogane, their ace, the born leader with great potential, has vanished. The hacking and cyber-security geniuses of Garrison, Sam and Matt Holt, also gone. All three were last reported as being kidnapped by the Galra organization, but everything since then has been nothing but vague rumors and questionable sightings. The general closes his eyes and holds back his sigh, before addressing Blue again.

“Thank you. You are dismissed.”

He drops his head just low enough and leaves, his sneakers making soft squeaks on the tile that surely must not match the mood right now.

Lance leaves through the secret exit, the cold air hitting him like a truck. It makes him shiver, and he jams his hands into his pockets. He grew up in a place with hot summers and golden beaches, and even if his brain can barely retrieve those fuzzy memories, his body still remembers like it was yesterday. The thought makes him flash a boyish smile, and he struts down the street, his breaths fogging in the air. Nothing to do but wait for his next mission now. He'll just get some takeout and chill in the safe house. Sometimes he wishes he could have pets, but with the frequency of his visits, the best thing for him would probably be a tarantula, and that will never, _ever_ happen. Lance shudders in disgust, when his phone buzzes.

The caller ID says that it's an unknown number, but in the very corner of the screen there is a miniscule wrench icon made out of the bare minimum of pixels. His dark blue eyes shine, and he taps the screen to accept the call.

“What's up?”

“Lance! Everything go alright on the mission? Hear anything about Shiro?”

Hunk's voice is always so bright and beaming, that Lance can't help but broaden his smile.

“Yeah, the food was great,” Lance says, yelping as he bumps his elbow into a streetlight.

“Lance?!” Hunk exclaims.

“Sorry, sorry, lost focus for a bit. My friend liked it so much that she actually wanted to talk to the chef! Too bad it didn't work out.”

“Gotcha, I'll give the news. It's fine, Pidge will understand.”

“I know, but it's still not fair to the chef,” he says, frowning.

It hurt whenever he had to say that he couldn't find a thing to Pidge, who clawed out of despair as Katie Holt, and tracked down Garrison to work as Pidge Gunderson. Shiro was a legend to Lance as well, so he hopes that they can all get this settled once and for all.

Movement flickers in Lance's peripherals, and his eyes narrow into cold, dead chips of glass again.

“Oh well, you're busy, right? Call ya' later," he casually says to Hunk.

“Something happened? Aw no, don't get hurt, alright? Call me back when it's all clear.”

“Gotcha.”

He ends the call and puts the phone back into his jacket pocket, which he zips it up. Hunk's such a crybaby that there's no way Lance can just die on the softie. Without breaking the strut in his step he keeps walking aimlessly, even beginning to sing some songs softly in Spanish. For all intents and purposes, he looks like some student strolling back to an apartment after a night of hanging out and enjoying the city with friends.

His attention is solely on the person tailing him. Hunk has always grumbled about Lance's flair for theatrics, but Lance can't help it; it's just way too much fun to surprise people by pretending you're out of bullets or gravely injured. Honestly, the Blue of Garrison would rather die in a ditch then let themselves be caught without any bullets like some trigger-happy rookie.

Lance pitches forwards and stumbles, before straightening up again. After a pause to grumble and rub his head, he starts walking again, with a bit more sway in his steps. The killing intent behind him flares up, and he seriously wants to roll his eyes right now. This assassin is one of the more impulsive ones he's dealt with. Maybe it's their first job? In that case, he know exactly how to end this. He spins around on the sole of a foot then cups his hands around his mouth. At this time at night, the shopping district is empty and abandoned, and the huge tunnel of glass plates that the shops are piled under makes the perfect echo chamber.

“I know you're there!” He yells. “Come out!”

It's completely silent, but Lance waits.

He can hear the shuffling at the sides, amplified by the tunnel. The noise begins to start coming in from all directions, like thousands of insect legs scuttling through the area, yet Lance is as still as a stone. His eyes are closed and his ears sift through the waves of sound.

He won't lose this waiting game.

A huge crash sounds from his left; a man dashes out from behind a row of trash bins. The gun he raises to shoot Lance with flashes with blue streaks under the faint moonlight-

A single step later and the hitman's on the ground, grunting as his arm is twisted back.

“Now then,” Lance mutters, leaning in, “who sent you?”

The man grits his teeth as Lance rubs his face full of stubble into the concrete, but the clenched expression soon turns into a broad smile.

“Sasha, now!”

Lance clicks his tongue and breaks the man's arm as fast as he can. Right as the crunch of bones and joints rattles the area, he snaps around, just in time to see a little girl seemingly rise from the shadows.

Her cherubic face catches Lance off guard, and he can only stare as the girl swipes at his arm. The knife is barely the size of a letter opener, but it easily glides through his sleeve and flesh. Sharp pain jolts him out of his daze, and he shoves her back, ready to counter.

Lance is too slow though, and she melts back into the shadows, dragging the ragged man with her.

 _Skill-user?_ He thinks, raising an eyebrow at the rapidly disappearing black puddle.

Warm blood drips down his arm, and he swears and clutches at it with his other hand. This is such a mess. He'll have to report the attack, and the moment he says he lost his cool because there was a little girl, he _knows_ he's going to get chewed out. They'll force him to go on some dangerous mission with a cut up arm out of spite, Lance bets. It's nothing he can't handle, but he still prefers having time to recover from any injuries that could make his work sloppy. Hell, he knows that Pidge got a whole two months off of work after a broken wrist, and even after Pidge refused the vacation, the higher ups wouldn't have it. That's nothing compared to Hunk, either. After the big guy got a minor concussion one time, he wasn't even allowed to do crosswords in bed, since he needed to be resting his brain.

“The whole, 'you are disposable thing', huh?” Lance grumbles to himself. He can't even remember what generation of Blue he must be. All he knows is that they die out surprisingly fast, even when compared to the other disposables, the Reds and the Blacks.

He checks the cut on the underside of his forearm – it's deep, but he can handle it. Another check with his tongue, and he's satisfied that the cut appears to be poison-free as well. There's some medical supplies at his safe house, so he'd best be going soon, but no one would blame him if he were to keep kneeling on the cobblestones for a bit to rest, right?

“Are you alright? You're bleeding!”

The voice makes Lance snap to attention, and someone runs in front of him, clutching a bag of groceries with both arms. Lance looks over the source of the voice, and immediately, even if it's the shittiest thing he could possibly do right now, he feels his lip curling up in disgust. The man looks harmless enough and is about his age, but in an instant, an inexplicable hate for the stranger also begins to well up inside Lance, and he knows _exactly_ why.

Messy dark hair, brooding eyes, an outfit that looks _way_ too inspired by the eighties for Lance's comfort – he can't deal with these kinds of guys; the moody, handsome guys that somehow get all the girls while moping away everyday. How anyone can act and feel like their favorite pet has just died every hour of the day, _every_ day, Lance has no idea.

“Nah, it's fine,” Lance mutters, trying to hide his pout by turning to the side. “My place is about twenty minutes away, so I'll be good.”

The stranger scowls, and his hands scrunch up the brown bag of food.

“Are you _serious_?! Someone's just asking if you're okay, and you're acting like _I'm_ the one who cut you up!”

“No one told you to be a goody-two-shoes,” Lance fires straight back.

If he could pout even harder, he would right now.

Brooding guys? Bad. Brooding guys with a hair-trigger temper? Worse.

“I haven't even done anything!”

“I don't need any help, I'm fine,” Lance grumbles as he gets up, but it's a mistake. He jumps up way too fast, and the next thing he knows the blood loss has his head swimming and knees folding.

With all the grace of a drunken bull, Lance stumbles and slams himself straight into the other man's chest, crushing the bag of groceries.

“Oh, what the hell?!” the stranger snaps, shoving back Lance. The hem of his jacket flips up as he does so, and Lance's eyes dart down at the brief glimpse he gets of the stranger's waist. The shove makes him nearly trip backwards, and keeps his head purposely hung low afterwards.

“Are you drunk? You don't smell like alcohol. My place is a couple blocks from here, so just follow me,” the man insists, already stomping away.

In the end, the dripping blood convinces Lance to follow, but he conceals the new tension rolling off his body. Lance's gaze drifts down to the man's side, and he now notices the slight bulge under that tacky red jacket, barely a blip in the stranger's overall outline. It's a knife, and a fairly large one at that. Lance is pretty sure amateurs wouldn't use something of that size just for self-defense, and since this city is well known for its bars, he has a pretty good idea what this stranger must do for a living.

He must a Sweeper.

A moody, hot-tempered Sweeper _._

It takes everything Lance has not to just break out into a huge groan.

This day has officially become the worst.

 


	2. Suspicion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some chatting and eating happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, all of your comments give me life!  
> This chapter is on the longer side, to make up for the wait and how short chapter 1 was. Editing turned out to be a pain though...

The stranger trails behind, keeping up at a steady clip despite a bleeding arm, all while Keith finds his self-control being tested over and over.

“If I'm being honest here, you're literally the _only_ person I've ever seen with a mullet.”

“Should you really be trash-talking someone who's offering to help?” Keith replies, his teeth gritted so hard he hears them creak.

“Maybe not,” the man admits with a shrug. Droplets of blood fling about, and Keith avoids it with disgust.

“But right now that hairstyle needs as much help as I do right now.”

“Says the guy with the god-awful choker around his neck right now.”

“Hey! It was a gift from someone important!” the stranger snaps, but their voice still drops to a low pitch afterward. “They _did_ have horrible taste though,” he mutters.

Underneath all of Keith's new found loathing for this asshole of a stranger, there's still a twinge of respect for how the man can fire back coherent jabs while pale and bleeding. Maybe he's being impulsive, but he knows Shiro would scold him for ignoring anyone that needs help, even someone as annoying as this guy. Plus, the stranger gives off the feeling of death, and even Keith would feel bad about leaving someone innocent to die in cold blood. So he takes deep breaths, counts to ten, and deals with it like a champ.

They reach the unassuming apartment building, and Keith points at the fourth floor.

“This place is old as hell, so no elevators. Think you can handle it?”

“Hah, piece of cake,” the man says, puffing out his chest. A cocky grin spreads over his face and his chest juts out by barely an inch. It reminds Keith of a lanky stork – a body with awkwardly long limbs flapping around.

“Anyways, let's go,” Keith sighs, unlocking the gate to the stairs. He holds it open for the stranger, who strides in as if he owns the place. The stairway is dimly lit, and no one in the building is quite sure if the wiring has ever been updated, hence the horror movie-style flickering some of the lights have. Keith glances at the first step with an offhand look, his gaze dipping down and up in less than a footstep.

It's a centimeter taller than a normal step, a sign of the shoddy craftsmanship that went into this place, and he knows the neighbors have already dubbed it, “the newcomer's step”. The stranger walks forward at a brisk pace, his foot rising onto the step and landing perfectly onto the top. Keith scowls, and his mood only sours when the stranger starts to talk.

“Hah! Bet you thought I wouldn't notice!” the man gloats, looking over his shoulder to flash a triumphant grin at Keith, taking another large step. It's _too_ big, and he stumbles forward, scrabbling at the wall and narrowly avoiding breaking his jaw on the steps.

“You were saying?”

“Shut up.”

Keith smiles to himself, but the bloody smear on the wall wipes it off his face.

“Hey, is it still bleeding?”

“Mm, yeah, but it should stop soon. The cut's clean, and the bleeding's definitely slower than before,” the stranger says, checking the wound once more. “It looks worse than it really is.”

Keith points at the bloodstain on the wall.

“Um yeah, but you're still fucking bleeding onto the walls. This place is already a nightmare, so try not to touch anything.”

“C'mon, don't ask so much of an injured guy.”

“You sure as hell don't sound like one.”

The stranger curiously peers down the hallways as they move up each floor. Keith doesn't get how the idiot's so curious. Each floor is just a repeat of the previous one: peeling, tacky mint paint, blotchy cream ceilings; chipped moldings. At the fourth floor, he pushes past the stranger and steps onto the discolored floorboards. Each step he makes creaks like a scratchy whistle or a broken record scratch.

“My room's at the end,” he says, hearing the stranger plod behind him. The doors are all packed side by side, and a handful still have light seeping out from underneath the thresholds. Keith pays no attention to their noisy footsteps, no making any effort to stop the creaking. At the end of the hall is a tiny window clouded with grime, looking out over pieces of the city. As he fumbles in his pockets for his keys, his eyes catch the light, softening. The lights from the city center look like clusters of golden stars from here, glittering and flashing from a distance.

“This place is really pretty,” the stranger notes, popping up next to him. Keith chokes and jerks away, his heart beating wildly. The stranger leans into the window, squishing the tip of his ski-jump nose against the glass. He acts harmless enough, childishly ogling the city lights, but Keith's busy trying to slow down the thumping in his chest. He sweeps his eyes from the end of the stairs to the windows, trying to remember when he stopped hearing anything.

The feeling of death. People who are about to die have it. It's how when Shiro got a pretty big cut patched up, he insisted that the man go get it re-checked. It turned out the doctor who sewed him up accidentally left some debris in the injury. If they hadn't caught it early, it would’ve become septic. It's how Keith just _knew_ that they both had been poisoned and sabotaged while stationed at a Garrison base for a mission. His instincts are unrivaled, and he listens to them, but he's remembering something else now.

That day, he and Shiro staked out a PMC. From a mile away, hidden under a tarp under the hot sun, they spied on enemy actions with scopes and specialized cameras. They did their research and followed the right people, but what surprised Keith was how heavily everyone carried that feeling of death. It was like each person was awash in that suffocating feeling, from when they headed out with guns in their hands to when they returned in the darkness with women and loot. There wasn't any point in trying to eradicate a PMC of dead men walking, and Keith made sure to tell Shiro just that. Shiro merely held his chin and looked to the side, thinking over what to say.

 

_“Well, I think things might be more complicated than that.”_

 

The words made Keith raise an eyebrow, but he didn't argue. A few days later, after the PMC had completed some more contracts, they were still walking around, healthy as can be. Keith could only stare, his mouth hanging open, and that was the first time he found out that there were two ways to to cover yourself in the feeling of death.

One, by being close to death.

Two, by killing as much as you could.

Cold sweat begins to bead onto Keith's forehead, and he finally the pulls his keys out of his pocket.

“Oh, so I can finally get this patched up,” the stranger says, his smile bright like a child's.

It clashes with that disgusting vibe he gives off.

 _Just what kind of monster did I pick up?_   Keith thinks. He tries not to visibly swallow as he unlocks the door. A good smack with his shoulder helps the old hinges fold open easier, and the door swing open to reveal a tiny, darkened apartment.

 

In the split second before the moody asshole turns on the lights, Lance scans the entire area. There's a single living area with a tiny kitchenette to the side. To the left is a door that most likely leads to a bedroom and bathroom. The living space is cramped and barely fits a ratty couch, a rickety wooden coffee table, and a TV on the opposite side against the wall. The windows are big, taking up almost the entire upper half of the wall across from the door and above the couch, but Lance notes that the wooden shutters are just as massive, able to be shut closed and locked. Lights flicker on, and Lance closes his eyes, waiting for them to adjust. Mr. I-look-like-I've-never-had-any-fun-before dumps his groceries on the kitchenette counter, while Lance ambles to the couch.

“So, what are you gonna need?” he asks Lance.

“Rubbing alcohol, water, a tub or something that I can use to wash out the cut, lots of gauze, a really thin needle, um... oh yeah, a lighter, a really thin needle, a pair of scissors, and some thread. Though, I'm not sure if a Sweeper would have all that junk in just a hideout.”

At the mention of the word “Sweeper”, the man freezes and looks over his shoulder, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“How do you know that? I haven't said a thing,” he says, each word clipped and enunciated.

Killing intent begins to come from the man and Lance stares back, unafraid. The two stare each other down, and the man's hand rests near his hip, around the knife. Lance offhandedly holds the back of his neck, his fingertips brushing against the bladed hairpin hidden under his crudely layered hair. In the end, Lance is the one who speaks first. He sighs and jumps back into the couch, his body sinking into the old cushions.

“Don't freak out man! I saw the knife when you shoved me. I'm pretty sure only a Sweeper would carry something that big.”

From the corner of his eyes, Lance sees the man's shoulders slump in relief, and he breathes his out his own sigh. The tension deflates from the room at a blinding pace, and the time begins to move again for the both of them.

“Well, lucky for you, dumbass, this is my base, and I keep it well-stocked.”

He starts digging around some of the cabinets in the kitchenette, before taking out what Lance is pretty sure is a medium sized mixing bowl and dumping the rest of the things inside it.

“You really sure about sewing it up yourself? Why not a hospital, or an underground doctor?” the man asks, pausing every now and then to brush his bangs out of his face.

“I don't really know any underground docs, and hospitals are just too much of a hassle. Plus, you offered to help, so I just took it,” Lance replies, propping his legs onto the table and elevating his arms above his head. The bleeding has stopped, but he'd rather not take any chances.

“What about superglue?”

“Um, no. That shit doesn't dissolve like the hospital stuff does. Plus, this might be a bit too deep for that.”

“Yeah, well sewing thread doesn't dissolve either, dipshit.”

“It gets the job done without literally  _melting_  my skin together.”

“Don't blame me when you fuck up your arm.”

“I've done this before, no prob!”

Keith sticks his head over the counter, eyes narrowed.

“'Before'? Whatever you do for a living, you're obviously shit at it,” he says, before ducking back down for a lighter.

“I'll have you know that I'm amazing, alright! One of the best!” he retorts, his voice cracking in the middle.

The whole room goes silent, except when the other man tries to smother his chuckles.

“I can totally hear you!”

Chuckles soon turn into quiet laughter, and the other man is openly laughing at Lance while he carries over the mixing bowl to dump on the coffee table.

“Holy shit, how old are you?” the man jeers, grinning all so high and mighty.

“Seventeen, but I'm pretty sure I'm not drowning in teen angst like you are right now.”

“T-teen angst?! Also, you're seventeen too?!” the man chokes. If Lance is surprised by the fact that they're the same age, he's doesn't show it, and he doesn't let up on his offensive either.

“Honey, you look like you've been dressed by the spirit of a dead eighties rock star while acting like everyday is someone's funeral. You're a teen mess.”

The man bristles at the word “honey”, but his scowl turns into a grin as he notices the blood sloshed over Lance's coat and shirt.

“Oh really? Well, you better start liking the eighties rock star style if you don't want to go home in bloody clothes.”

It's Lance's turn to choke and splutter out nonsense as he sees the mess his jacket and shirt are. If he doesn't want to get pulled over by the police on the way home, he'll probably need to borrow one of this moody guy's jackets. No, scratch that, he doesn't want to stain the jacket with blood, so he'll probably need to borrow a shirt too.

“Aw, fuck me...” Lance complains. “You win this one,” he growls, shrugging off his jacket. He takes off his baseball tee next, carefully peeling the sleeve off the wound. It's the first good look that Lance's moody, Good Samaritan has gotten of the wound, and the guy's eyes widen.

“Whoever did that had a good knife,” he mutters, hovering over Lance.

“Definitely,” Lance says, bitter. If he was wearing his work coat, something like this would've never happened, but he hates wearing even his modified street clothes. They're heavy and stiff. This isn't the time and place to be mulling over such things though. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself for what's to come. “You aren't squeamish, are you?” he asks the man, who seems curious and is waiting to watch. Or maybe just to laugh in Lance's face if something goes wrong.

“A squeamish Sweeper would have a pretty bad time.”

“Cool.”

Lance focuses on his breathing for a bit, calming his heart. The edges of the wound have gone numb, but what he's about to do will probably hurt like hell. He empties out the bowl and unscrews the cap of the rubbing alcohol and a bottle of water. With his forearm held over the bowl, he touches the edges of the wound, and splays it open with two fingers. The harsh movement cause a tremor of pain to run up and down his arm, but Lance's arm stays still, even if he winces. He checks the wound for any debris or dirt, and picks out a piece of lint from his shirt. Satisfied that there's nothing left inside, he pours water and rubbing alcohol over the wound, cleaning it out and prepping it. The thread soaks in the bottle of rubbing alcohol as he runs the tiny needle through the lighter flame. When Lance is satisfied, he threads it in a single try and goes straight into sewing.

In less than fifteen minutes, the whole thing is over, and Lance notices the man staring in shock.

“Hehe, I told you I've done this before! It's no biggie; once the edges start to close, I'll take out the thread and starting dressing it normally.”

Lance reaches over to grab the gauze, but his hands tremble and he drops the roll.

“Um-”

“I can do that.”

He looks over in surprise at the other man, who begins to dress the stitches with all the ease of a professional. The man wipes the cut down with another wash of rubbing alcohol, before creating a pad of gauze to place over the injury. From there, he wraps the whole thing in an ace bandage.

“All good?”

“Y-yeah.”

The man is frowning at Lance, and Lance can't help but throw in some more gloating.

“Too bad; I didn't fuck up and you were wrong.”

“Ugh, and you're the biggest douche I've ever met. I'll go grab a shirt and jacket.”

“Please make them something plain.”

“Beggars can't be choosers!”

The man stomps off into his room, leaving Lance to laugh on the couch.

 

The stranger eases off his shirt, yelping as the sleeve peels off the sliced open skin. Rather than the ugly, oozing cut, it's the scars that capture Keith's attention. Pale lines and splotches scattered all over, made even more prominent by the stranger's dark skin. The way he sews himself up like it's nothing freaks Keith out more than nothing else. With all the concentration of a brain surgeon, he couldn't even hear Keith's noises of disgust as the needle slid into flesh. Again, Keith hopes he hasn't fucked up by bringing a monster into his one and only base.

Keith's room is barely the size of a walk-in closet, with a tiny bed and desk shoved into a corner, and a dresser placed against the opposite wall. He pulls open one of the drawers under the bed to grab a shirt. Now's the important part. Freaky shit aside, he still wants to embarrass the hell out of the guy. If he hates Keith's style so much, he might as well grab whatever looks best to him, so he digs through his closet for his cropped, bright red jacket. Keith likes it, and no one can say anything about it, which means that that guy is gonna hate it for sure.

...Wait. Isn't this the same as sort of agreeing with the guy that his fashion sense is shit?

Keith grumbles and picks up both the jacket and the dark shirt and bundles them up in his arms. He opens his door, and he hears the stranger talking on a cellphone. The guy looks oddly relaxed, despite being injured and shirtless in an unfamiliar person's apartment, and he's talking with the most genuine smile Keith has seen the guy make this entire night.

“Yeah, a good person decided to help out.”

He nearly drops the clothes hearing that.

“Umm, yeah, but he's also _that_ kind of person, you know, the moody type that I hate!”

The stranger wilts as whoever on the other side begins to most likely scold him.

 _Serves you right,_ Keith thinks, still peeking.

“Alright, alright! I got it! Bye, see ya' later.”

The stranger sighs and ends the call, tossing his phone onto the couch cushions. Keith grins and walks in.

“So, I'm a 'good person'?”

“Ugh, you heard that all, didn't you?” the asshole complains, splaying himself over the couch. “Anyway, the name's Lance, and I still hate your clothes.”

“Mine's Keith, and whether you like it or not, you're gonna be dressed by 'the spirit of a dead eighties rock star', if I remember correctly,” he says, tossing the clothes at Lance. Lance takes one glimpse and groans.

“Fuck me,” he grumbles, pulling on the shirt and jacket. The fabric slides over his scars, and he pulls out the pendant of his choker from under the collar. The clothes fit him surprisingly well, if only a bit tight around the shoulders, and he stares down at them in horror.

“Holy shit; it's actually _cropped and bright red._ What the fuck? Oh god, even the collar's propped.”

“If you wanna wear those bloody clothes, be my guest,” Keith snaps.

“Ugh, fine, fine. I do owe you for doing me a favor though,” Lance says, holding his chin and gazing about with a sour expression.

“How about you never appear in my life ever again?”

“Unfortunately, as much as I wish that too, I'm wearing your clothes right now, I was raised to be the nicest person ever, and my best friend would chew me out for doing a dick move like that.”

“You already are a dick. The biggest I've ever met in my life.”

Lance groans and jumps to his feet, seemingly recovered from his blood loss and shock.

“I can't think on an empty stomach! Lemme have something,” he says, making a beeline for the bag of groceries.

“Seriously?! My food too?!”

“Relax! Just an apple or something'!”

Keith rushes over to stop Lance, his checkbook begging him to save it, but Lance is faster. He eagerly looks in the bag, then freezes. He nearly shoves his head inside the bag, and incredulous expression on his face.

“Huh?”

In a single motion, Lance dumps out the bag, the instant food rattling in its containers on the counter.

“Douche, what was that for?” Keith snaps, deciding that it's time to go to the next step of name-calling.

Before his very eyes, Lance _vanishes_ and reappears in front of fridge. Keith's eyes bug out, and he rubs his eyes, wondering if he finally needs glasses after nineteen years of perfect 20/20 vision.

“What the _fuck_?” Keith whispers to himself.

Lance digs through the sparse fridge, then flings open the freezer, which is stuffed chock-full of microwave meals.

“Dude, how are you alive?”

“C-cooking's not my strong suit, okay?!” Keith splutters in indignation, trying to defend himself.

Lance's eyes narrow, and he makes an effort to stand extra-tall, hands on his hips and his mouth set in a firm line.

“Hm, okay then – I'm gonna cook _real_ food for you. I'll even bring my own groceries and shit myself, since you saved me a hospital trip and a ton of annoying explanations,” Lance declares, intruding into the cupboards and cabinets, making the weirdest expressions as he finds all sorts of strange preservatives scattered throughout.

...It's a good deal. The only issue is that they might kill each other first, but if Keith thinks of it as more of a trade, the idea becomes a lot more bearable. Well, then there's also the fact that the death might spoil Keith's appetite. Not to mention he has no idea _what_ the guy is.

In the end though, Keith's bank account wins.

“Shit, you have a deal,” Keith sighs, physically forcing himself to extend his hand.

“Cool. I'm not as good as my best friend, but it still tastes pretty damn good!” Lance says, smiling and grabbing Keith's hand in a firm handshake.

They shake on it, and when Lance nearly trips over an uneven floorboard leaving the apartment, Keith wonders if he's made the worst mistake of his life.

 

Lance stands in front of his superior, ready for the worst.

“A skill-user, you say?”

“Yessir.”

The general's head dips down as he ponders over something, but it's only for a brief moment.

“Leave. You'll be getting your next assignment shortly, and make sure to have your arm properly looked at.”

“Understood.”

He leaves the briefing room, but instead of going home, he takes a left, making a beeline for Hunk and Pidge's lab, a clear frown twisting his face. His footsteps echo and squeak loudly in the bright, lit-up hallways. The hand print and retina scan go without a hitch, and Lance stands back at the door slides open. He enters the dim jungle of machinery and wires without a second thought, immediately pressing a hand to the side to stop a stack of papers from imploding onto the ground.

“Hunk, you won't believe it – No punishment.”

Lance starts fighting the stack, shoving it back into its proper place of abandonment. In the corner, a large figure is barely visible through the mess.

“So you got off just like that?” Hunk asks, tinkering with a miniscule limb under his hands.

With a final roundhouse kick to the stack, Lance sighs and leans against one of the few places with bare wall exposed.

“Yeah,” he replies.

“Watch your step,” Pidge calls from the other side. Lance shrieks and narrowly avoids kicking an overloaded mess of surge-protectors out of the wall.

“Ack! Thanks, Pidge. You know why the higher ups decided to not chew me out for letting an attacker get away?”

Pidge leans back over her chair. Pidge's devious grin never ceases to unnerve Lance, and the smoking soldering iron in her hand isn't helping.

“Seriously? You didn't even ask if I've got the bugs planted here recording dummy-convos.”

“Are they?”

“...Yeah. While I was digging through all of Garrison's oh-so top-secret files, I found some interesting stuff about the other colors. Hunk is already in the know, or rather, he _fucking looked through my computer while I was in the bathroom!_ ” Pidge yells accusingly across the room.

“Sorry! My bad!”

Lance groans and tiptoes his way over as fast as he can. For a moment, he and Pidge share a look of understanding.

“You should put the thing on sleep and password lock it from now on, even if you're gonna be leaving it for only a second. Hunk doesn't know something's private unless he gets a hint like that,” Lance whispers.

“What'd he do to you?”

“Uh, let's just say when I was staying in headquarters he tried to bust in my room at the wrong time. Anyways, what'd you find out?”

Pidge glares suspiciously at Lance for a moment, but she blessedly drops the subject. Her eyes are gleaming with ill-intent.

“Those crusty old geezers have been trying to keep quiet about it,” she scoffs, “but the Garrison colors are in a bit of jam right now. Everyone was suspicious of how the higher ups were pretending like they were super worried about Shiro and my dad and brother right?”

“Yeah, but they weren't even using the full investigation squad. Why even pretend if they weren't gonna give a damn?”

“Right, but get this; apparently the Red was so pissed at how little of a shit they were giving that they actually defected!”

Lance's jaw drops, and he touches his ears, wondering if he's suddenly hearing things.

“You serious, Pidge?! I mean I've never met the guy, or gal, or whatever, but man! That takes guts!”

“You know what that means though, right?”

Lance's eyes narrow, and his shoulders slump as he also sighs pitifully.

“And I was wondering why I've been so freaking busy since last year. Since Shiro isn't here, that means that even if they were to find a new Red, the poor sucker would have to go solo, and with the types of jobs Blacks and Reds get, that's no good. Which means I'm the only purely combat-oriented color in Garrison right now.”

“Bingo,” Pidge says, swinging back up to work on the microchip in front of them.

“Come on! That means they're gonna work me to the bone then!”

“Yeah, but look at the bright side; you won't be sent on 'punishment' missions for now.”

“Ugh... But I hate being so busy all the time. I thought it was just gonna be one of _those_ years, y'know?”

Lance sulks and begins wandering around the lab though, peeking at every little thing.

“Don't touch anything!” the two warn in sync.

“I know, I know.”

“By the way, what about that person that helped you out?” Hunk asks. “I saw the pictures. You didn't look that bad.”

“Dude, for real?! When I saw those clothes I thought it was Rowan all over again!”

Hunk laughs and stops working on his bots to spin around and face Lance.

“Rowan was in a class of his own, alright?”

“Pictures? Lemme see!” Pidge insists, effortlessly weaving her way over through the servers and cabinets and wires piling up on her side of the lab.

Lance pulls them up on his phone to show, and Pidge leans in, their glasses a blank slate from the screen's glow.

“...Hunk's right. Not that bad,” she says with a shrug.

“You too, Pidge?!”

“That's how it looks.”

“When are you going to return the clothes?” Hunk asks.

“Tonight, since I don't have a target or anything. Ah, shit. I also promised to cook for him to pay him back for helping me out, so I should probably bring groceries too.”

“Cook? You hate moody people, and plus you hate Sweepers too! What made you agree to that?!” Hunk yelps.

“Spur of the moment thing. He feels like the cautious type, so he won't go for the shady bounties like the one that took out Rowan, and plus, if you saw that fridge, you'd agree too.”

Pidge shakes her head and looks at Hunk.

“Even if you're the better chef and you like cooking second only to engineering, I'm still surprised that _Lance_ is the one that loves food more, even if pretty girls still take precedence.”

“That's just cause I like eating more. You guys both like anything creative, anyways,” Lance says, disappearing and reappearing at their desks to look at their projects.

“Ack! Stop flash-stepping!” Pidge snaps, nearly jumping as Lance jumps in front of her again. “You're gonna step on something again!”

“But this is the perfect place to practice this! Oh What's this, Hunk?”

There's miniscule bits of metal and rubber all spread out over the table, neatly sectioned into different categories, and in the middle of it all is a curve of metal the size of the first two joints of Lance's pinky, consisting of all sorts of metal pieces welded together or notched against each other, and small strips of rubber affixed at certain areas.

“Tiny legs. I'm planning on building some scout bots, and Pidge is gonna write the AI for them.”

Pidge smirks and crosses her arms, gesturing to the equally miniscule microchip back on her own desk.

“I wanna give 'em a bit of personality – just to annoy the geezers up top who insist everything has to be all sleek and modern and 'look military' and blah blah blah. Hunk already decided to make cute little mice, so I think I wanna given the things their own personalities too.”

Lance grins and looks at the tiny machinery once more, his eyes sparkling at the possibilities.

“When you guys are done with one, I totally want to see it!”

“You'll be the first one we tell,” Hunks says reassuringly, laughing at how excited Lance is.

 

Bounties are spread all over the cork board, and Keith' surrounded by dozens of large, burly men looking as well. It might come back to bite him in the ass someday, but he usually just picks whichever name has the most money. There's armed robbers, the occasional serial killer, and even a couple mob bosses here and there, but Keith's unpins Silas Entomon's poster off the board in the end.

“Hey, you sure about that, kid?” as man asks from behind him. The guy's at least two heads taller, with bulging muscles and what looks like a handgun the size of Keith's forearm at his waist, but even he's sweating as he looks at the name in Keith's hands. The other Sweepers around them silently wait, also wanting to know. Keith re-reads the man's description, but doesn't see the cause for concern.

“I've dealt with skill-users before, and this 'fallen athlete' thing doesn't sound that bad, considering how crazy some of the former mercs here are.”

His words make a couple people bristle, and the other Sweeper doesn't seem convinced, even when he sees how serious Keith's eyes are.

“I guess it's before your time, but ten years ago, Silas was a big name around these parts. Sure, his skill doesn't sound like anything too special, but how do you think he got that crazy bounty? It's a lot more versatile than it seems. He killed twenty people before he was stopped and sent to prison, and I heard that he killed another thirty during his prison break. I dunno why he's laying low right now, but trust me, going after him is like committing suicide. Let the police and all their fancy equipment handle this, kid.”

At that moment, Keith walks out without saying a thing.

“Fool,” someone spits.

Even if skill-users are rarer nowadays, Keith's used to them, from all the time he's spent with Shiro taking down whole organizations of them. They're always full of openings from being so proud of their skills that anyone properly trained could take them down. He gets back to his apartment, and after a call to an info-broker later, he knows where Silas is currently hiding – an abandoned church at the city's edge. The fact that he got that info so easily makes Keith a tiny bit more reluctant, since why else would the first person he called know something like that unless Silas's whereabouts were already well known? Have people seriously been so afraid that he's just been allowed to wander?

Keith sits cross-legged on the couch, looking at the bounty, researching and planning. Loud creaking bothers him an hour later, and he groans and waits for a knock. Thunder echoes throughout the apartment building as Lance pounds on the door. Keith groans and mutters under his breath, running for the door. He looks through the peephole, and sure enough, it's the dumbass.

After a whole litany of locks running down the side of the door, he opens it up.

“Yo.”

“I didn't pay attention last time, but did I seriously hear, like, _seven_ locks?” Lance says, noticing that the shutters on the windows are locked tight as well.

“Just shut up, will you?”

“Nope.”

He's already barging in with a bag full of groceries and with Keith's clothes tucked under his arm. The tacky pendant dangling from his choker sways between his collarbones as he holds out the shirt and jacket.

“Washed it for you already, so here. My friends said it wasn't that bad, but I refuse to admit defeat.”

Keith smirks and takes them back.

“As long as you wear that terrible necklace that's never gonna happen.”

“I keep telling you! It was a gift, and I always wear it! Well, maybe except when I shower and sleep, but otherwise, always!”

“Yeah, yeah, you told me that the person who gave it had shit style though,” Keith calls as he disappears into his bedroom to put away the clothes. Lance can only grumble, and he catches a glimpse of the bounty on the coffee table before putting the groceries on the counter.

“A bug-controlling skill,” he says to himself, pulling the meat and vegetables out of his bag. How would he deal with something like that, Lance muses for fun. From what he saw of Keith's kitchen last time, there's at least basic cooking tools, so for that he's grateful.

“What're you gonna do about the guy's bugs?” Lance asks when Keith reappears. He's already chopping small potatoes and asparagus, with chicken set to the side.

“You peeked at the bounty? Mm, fire,” he replies, flipping through the papers on the table. “If we're talking bugs, he'll usually need a lot to do any damage. So I'll burn them all off him.”

“That could work, but what about venomous bugs, like a brown recluse or something?”

“I've dealt with beast skill-users that poisoned everything they ever touched. This isn't anything too different. In fact it's how I got the fire idea.”

“Well, don't die then.”

Keith frowns and he drops his head down.

 

_“_ _I'll make things better for people like us. I swear.”_

 

“I can't die yet. No way,” he murmurs, just loud enough for them both to hear.

Lance looks up, head tilted in curiosity, before going back to his work.

“Must be nice to live with a goal in mind,” he says.

“You don't?”

“Kinda, but it's more like a fantasy than a goal.”

His words earn a chuckle from Keith, who drops the papers onto the couch.

“You're kinda pathetic, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know.”

It's not the response that Keith expects, but in that moment they mull over each others' words in silence – the closest thing to a show of respect and understanding that they're willing to give the other right now.

 

“Alright! Roasted potatoes and asparagus, and sauteed chicken,” Lance announces with that cocky grin of his, placing down _two_ plates onto the coffee table, to Keith's bewilderment.

“What, you seriously think I'm just gonna cook and leave like some maid? I need to eat too!”

In response, Keith pushes the plate to the side, so that they don't have to eat face to face. Lance doesn't care and sits onto the ground on the other side, immediately beginning to eat. Keith stares at the food for a good minute, before cutting off a piece of the meat and digging in himself. It's tender and well seasoned, and the meat is absolutely savory and juicy in Keith's mouth. He resists the urge to sigh happily.

“Oh yeah, I made some extra stuff and put it in the fridge, so you'll have real food to eat for awhile,” Lance says, pointing his fork at Keith.

“That frozen stuff is good when you're lazy, but it gets tiring sooner or later.”

“Why do you know how to cook?”

“The person I was living with when I was younger taught me how. They said it was something important to know.”

“Guess they weren't lying then.”

“Nope.”

Keith cleans his plate in a matter of minutes, and Lance finishes soon after as well.

“I can wash the plates,” Keith says, stacking them up. As Keith walks to the sink, Lance's phone buzzes. The good mood on Lance's face vanishes, and he checks his messages. After only scrolling through his new messages once, he wails and splays himself over the table, as a vein throbs in Keith's temple.

“For real?” he mutters to himself. Two jobs in a week. One the day after tomorrow, and another during the weekend.

The messages self-delete seconds later, and Lance lets his phone clatter onto the table.

“I'll come back tomorrow,” he says out loud.

“You don't have to, y'know? I doubt I helped you out that much.”

The sound of running water starts, and Keith starts scrubbing the dishes with soap and water.

“Nah, you really helped me out there. I might've passed out while trying to get home, and things would've really turned to shit. Your fridge still scares me too.”

“Fine, have it your way.”

Lance clicks his tongue and rolls his face back into the wood. The uneven legs make the whole table shift from the action, but he doesn't care.

“Just so you know, I'll probably go after my bounty this weekend, so you don't need to bother.”

“S'fine. I've got stuff coming up this week too.”

Keith stops washing the dishes and glares at Lance.

“If you've got nothing to do here, then can't you just leave?”

“I just got assigned some annoying work, alright? Lemme be depressed on this table for five more minutes.”

“Seriously, you're pathetic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously re-read all of Black Cat in like a week after beginning to write this fic. I've also begun re-watching Jormungand and Black Lagoon though... What I really like about the BC universe is that there's all sort of crazy shit going on: nanobots, Tao powers, clairvoyance, genetic manipulation, and inexplicably powerful "normal" characters like Train and Sephiria. Really means you can go wild with things.


	3. I've Always Hated Bugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The magic of teamwork~!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter to (hopefully) make your Monday better?  
> As usual, thank you for all the comments! They make me oh-so happy! I'm so glad so many of you liked the character interactions, since they took a long time to write!

The gunshot rings out endlessly through the jungle. Flocks of birds swarm from trees in a mass exodus. Silence reigns supreme.

With an uneven shuffle, the man slumps in his seat, a bullet hole dead center in his forehead. More blood is splattered onto the back wall in a fine mist, dripping off the peeling cream paint. Lance purses his lips, breathing out a long sigh.

“Sorry,” he mutters, “but you weren't a good person.”

Then the moment ends, as quickly as it began. Shell-shocked birds and insects begin screeching and buzzing again, and Lance perches himself onto the edge of the desk in the room. He pulls out a small notebook, and around the middle of it is a half-filled page of markings and dates. He dutifully scrawls down today's date and his current location with the dead man's fountain pen.

“Two in the hall, three guards outside, five hidden...” Lance's voice trails off as he tallies the victims. Sunshine boils the world outside, and the humidity plasters his clothes and hair to his skin. Overhead, the rotting ceiling fan spins a lazy, sluggish cycle, doing little to help.

He works on.

In the evening, the setting sun somehow feels even hotter. Lance and the other passengers stand on the airstrip, shuffling about and kicking up dirt. His reinforced shirt is already shoved into the suitcase, and he opts to only wear his more heavily armored jacket instead of both. The collar and first set of claps are undone, but he still needs to peel the coat off his skin. A few weak shakes later and his hopes for a breeze fizzle out. Despite his clothes and the large suitcase by his side, no one stares. Maybe because he blends in with the other disappointed Sweepers also spitting and shielding their eyes from the blinding setting sun, waiting for the plane that will take them home, wherever that is.

 _Sucks that I took out your bounty, huh?_ Lance thinks without a shred of sorriness. He counts ahead the hours with a huff-

“Ah!”

Spineless glares are shot Lance's way, but what matters more right now is that everything is lining up almost perfectly. He re-counts ahead the hours, this time on his fingers, beaming. With the time difference, how long the flight is, and the fact that this mission took less time than he expected, he'll be back in the evening, instead of early morning. Though, if he gets back early that means that he should probably go make food for Keith.

It's surprising, but Lance doesn't hate it as much as he thought he would. They just trash talk each other, eat, talk some more, then leave. Considering how much worse things could be, it's not bad at all. In fact, he sort of _enjoys_ eating over there, Lance realizes with a shudder. He better make sure that angst doesn't rub off on him.

 _Maybe I'll drop in after reporting, just to piss him off_ , Lance thinks, grinning.

 

The moon has just begun peeking over the horizon. Cold mist spills from Keith's mouth as he checks the sheathes for his sword and dagger. They're firmly belted down, and the modified Molotov cocktails are safely tucked into a side pouch as well. He takes another good look at the church. The bell has long gone missing, melted down for cheap profit elsewhere, and while the place may be tall, the classic cathedral has been gutted into a single, large room now. It won't be long before someone probably goes and sells the stained glass windows too.

Keith pulls out his sword, swinging it a few more times. He's already warmed up his body, but a few more swings helps to get some of the extra hastiness out of his system. The blade arcs through the air, glowing and chilling under the cold night.

 

 _“_ _Patience yields virtue.”_

 

That's right. He can defeat Silas, but he can't push it either. The grass muffles his steps as Keith strides to the church. In such an obvious place, it doesn't matter where he enters from. The double doors loom over him, firm, dark wood that has stubbornly remained standing despite the hardships that have befallen this place of worship. Keith lifts a foot, then kicks the door wide open. The sound echoes and folds over itself many times within the vaulted ceilings of the chapel, and before the echoes are done, Keith enters, his boots adding to the sound. The pews have been donated, the chandelier taken down, and even the organ has been ripped out of the wall. All that's left are dusty wooden floorboards and the stained-glass windows. However, even all the bright glass can't completely color the silver light streaming in. The clear skies that Shiro loves so much also let the moon illuminate the world at night. This cathedral is a perfectly set stage, wide open and well-lit. For all the place's beauty though, the air feels cold and wet; an extra, fetid layer settling over Keith's skin. The stink of death permeates every square inch of this place.

 _This is bad, this is bad, a terrible thing is about to happen – nothing must happen in here_ _at least_ , Keith's instincts scream at him.

He sheathes his sword and sprints for the doors, but right before his eyes they slam shut, pulled together by thin strands just barely visible. The handles are covered in the stuff, sealing the doors together. His feet skid to a stop, scuffing the floors. Keith pulls out his dagger and saws desperately at it, but to his shock, he can see his blade being dulled by the threads. Something wet drops onto his head, and Keith freezes. It's icy cold like the outside, and he resists the urge to take a deep breath of the disgusting air. He sheathes his dagger, before he swipes his thumb across his scalp where the wetness is.

It comes back dark and clotted, heavy with the scent of rust. He rubs his fingers together, and the sludge clumps up. 

Rotting blood.

Keith's gaze rolls up towards the ceiling, his movements slow and methodical.

“So much for being on the 'down-low',” he spits.

Right on cue, the bodies all fall off the rafters, hidden by the shadows. They tumble down, jerking to a stop right before the ground, shimmering thread wound about their necks and chests. Cracks and pops come from the bodies as they snap to a stop, dangling and “dancing” for a few moments before settling still. Some break apart, heads and skin sloughing off from the force of the threads cutting into the skin.

Keith wipes off the rotten blood splashed onto his face, pushing aside the bodies to stare straight at the center of the room. Silas descends from the rafters, his clothes clean-pressed and beautiful, more glimmering threads emerging from the back of his collar. The man might've been considered extraordinarily handsome at one point. In fact, his complexion is still clear, his eyes are bright, and his features are well-defined and striking.

Then there are the holes. They're irregular and misshapen, spread all over his skin, with his bodily membranes still visible underneath. Insects flit through them, and lumps roll under his flesh as the bugs travel from one place to underneath.

“So another Sweeper has come to claim my bounty?”

Keith stares through the bodies, straight into Silas's eyes.

“Silas Entamon. I'm taking you in.”

Without wasting a single moment, Keith splashes a can of lighter fluid onto the corpses around him, setting them all on fire. Insects pour out of the corpses, but it's too late. The go down in flames as Silas screams. Keith darts about, lighting up more and more corpses.

“How? How?!” Silas yells, still dangling from the ceiling.

“They gave me a bad feeling.”

In an instant the man transforms, and the rage morphs into apathy. Silas sighs and shrugs, making a small sweeping motion with a hand. Wasps begin pouring out of the corpses still unburned, swarms aimed straight for Keith. Keith clicks his tongue and runs straight into a swathe of burning corpses and dives through. He slams into the ground, and most of the wasps are baited into burning themselves alive. However, the ground begins to vibrate with scuttles. He jumps to his feet and baits the remaining wasps into the flames, slicing down the survivors with his sword. Some manage to sting him on the face and neck before being cut down. Keith yelps and lets his fingers brush against the already swelling stings. They burn, and his eyes squint in pain. He's right in the middle of this guy's territory, in Silas's personal stage.

“You really should focus more on your surroundings,” Silas says, beginning to swing back and forth on his threads. A dangerous feeling gathers around Keith's feet, and swarms of brown recluses and black widows converge towards him. He sharply exhales and splashes lighter fluid all around him, before using his lighter to set fire to the bugs in a protective circle around him. Gritting his teeth, he glares up at Silas.

“That all you got?!”

Silas stares down, intrigued. 

“What do you even get out of killing so many people?!” Keith shouts.

Surprise flits over Silas's face, and he smiles broadly. The bodies are already beginning to burn out, their damp corpses smothering the flames, and Keith tosses aside the empty can of lighter fluid with a growl. It smashes a few spiders in the distance, but the flame around Keith is already burning out.

“You're the first one to ever ask me that! Fine, I'll humor you before I kill you.”

The tables are turned in a second, but Keith wonders, were things ever really in his favor? The bugs are everywhere, and when Silas is lowered to the ground, and the spiders all scatter away with a single gesture from him. He is their king, and they will do anything he commands.

“You must've read up on my info, correct?”

Keith looks at every nook and cranny, feeling the stares of compound eyes on him. The little bits of killing intent all add up into something truly suffocating, and that's not saying anything about the larger forms of killing intent he can feel under the floorboards.

“Yeah. A disgraced athlete. After your abilities appeared, you killed the last person you lost to in a world-wide MMA competition.”

“Good. You're well informed,” Silas says, a smug grin on his face. His expression grows reverent and full of pleasure. “At that moment, I was _awakened_. Killing people is a sport all on its own, full of tough competitors and difficult challenges like no other. Even the weakest opponent puts up the _fiercest_ fight, you see? And like any sport, I can train and improve and become better and better. If I was never suited for MMA, then at least, at this... I can excel.”

“... I was wrong about Lance.”

“'Lance'? Who's that?”

“Someone like you doesn't need to know who he is. All I'll tell you is this. He's not as pathetic as I thought. You are. He's still living as himself, even without any goals or dreams in life. You? You just broke and gave into your new power so easily.”

Silas stares in shock, and Keith can see the man literally swell up in anger as insects bulge up under his skin. Keith lights a Molotov and pitches it at Silas. The thin-glassed bottle is aimed perfectly at Silas's chest, and right as it is about hit him-

A scorpion tail a foot long smashes it to the side, where it sets the floorboards on fire in a splattering arc. The tail swings around in agitation, while Keith's mouth hangs open.

“W-what-”

“You see, there's been some confusion about what my skill really is. It's not the control of insects. It's the _creation_ and _manipulation_ of all insects, including ones that are already extinct. Prehistoric insects were quite large due to all the oxygen in the atmosphere, you see. I'm funneling this specimen in my back extra oxygen from my bloodstream while controlling it, so don't even think about waiting for it to die in this thinner atmosphere.”

Keith's wide open mouth twitches and curls into a pained grin.

“Wasn't even thinking about that, to be honest.”

He dives in, pulling out his sword into a swinging arc at the exact same time. The scorpion tail shoots out and the blade barely sinks in, before Keith pulls out his dagger and thrusts it straight at Silas's stomach. The attack bounces off, and the shirt is cut open to reveal a cluster of brown, lumpy beetles clustered around the point of attack. He stumbles back and hits the ground, and Keith's tries to get off as fast as possible, but Silas tosses out something and Keith is wrapped in threads in an instant. No matter how hard he tries, he can't break the threads. Every struggle makes them tighten, and Keith coughs as he feels his rib cage being crushed.

“Ironclad beetles and Darwin's Bark Spiders. I actually had the spiders weave the thread in advance, then sent some of the prehistoric bugs to do the heavy lifting. All I had to do was throw these threads over you and the bugs under the floor tied themselves up accordingly.” Silas glances at the burned bodies.

“To be honest, I haven't tried psychological attacks yet. Ambushes work really well, but you need a lot for them to be effective, and you've burned most of the corpses. I'll slowly torture you and ruin your body, then string it up for the next Sweeper to find. Hopefully the shock will provoke them into a more panicked, frenzied form of fighting that I have yet to experience from a Sweeper.”

Keith swallows hard, and he can see what looks like ants with bulging heads spill out of one of Silas's cheek caverns while large, strange black flies with red wings spill from the hand at his chin.

“Bullet ants and Pepsis wasps. You might be able to bear the ants, but I'm not sure about the wasps.”

The insects begin to swarm through openings on his clothes, scuttling under the legs of his pants and under his collar. They're not biting yet, but Keith has a sinking feeling he'll know _exactly_ when they start to.

“That's seriously a _terrible_ hobby,” a muffled voice calls from somewhere. The voice makes Keith instinctively groan, and his head bangs against the floor for good measure.

“Oh hell no.”

 

Hunk and Pidge are both out. Lance frowns and sighs and complains to himself as he mills around the empty lab, before leaving. They're probably getting dinner or something. Right on cue, his phone buzzes with a message from Hunk.

 

_Hrd u bc k early srry pull som all-niters Pidge gon dead soon_

 

The barely coherent message makes Lance wince. He's already banned the in-lab coffeemaker (by poaching it for his own place), but the two still pull crazy shit like this every now and then. They get so engrossed in their work that Lance can sulk around the lab for hours and they won't care a single bit. At this point, he's honestly not sure if Pidge even sleeps.

Lance could never do something like that constantly. He already hates missions where he needs to be awake for more than twenty-four hours, stalking down targets. Nothing he can do about it. He quickly types back a message.

 

_Make sure Pidgeon sleeps. U too. G'nite._

 

_nite_

 

The stitches pull and ache as Lance stows away his phone, but it still needs about a week and a half according to a Garrison nurse. She shot him down when he asked for her number though. He's also an idiot for forgetting to take his shirt out of the suitcase earlier. The Garrison agents smuggled his luggage full of guns past customs at the transfer airport to take back to his place, so he's still here in work clothes and without a shirt in this cold, cold place.

Keith's place is a lot closer than Lance's, and Lance already has groceries stashed there. He might as well go directly to the sullen man's place where it's warm and go home with a belly full of warm food. The guy _has_ to be done by now with that Silas bounty, since the guy gives off the feeling of pure raw strength and speed. With a skip he runs out for Keith's derelict apartment building. Try as he might though, his fingers are still frozen by the time he's bounding up the stairs. The whole place creaks as Lance shuffles for the last apartment down the hall, hands jammed in his pockets next to old candy wrappers and the notebook, as well as a few meaningful shell-casings, but he stops at the door.

There's no light coming from underneath it.

Lance takes a second to look, then promptly heads home.

He gets back in minutes and opens up his suitcase, filled with guns and ammo and miscellaneous gear. Lance straps a holster around his waist and slips in a revolver, while a Glock goes inside his coat. Bullets and magazines also go inside his coat and on a utility belt he straps around his waist.

Where did it say that Silas was hiding? Glimpses of Keith's notes flash through his head, and Lance filters through the images at breakneck speed.

“Abandoned church,” he mutters. He locks the doors behind him and sets off.

 

Keith's reaction makes Silas jump, and the insects suddenly run off of Keith. He frowns, staring up at Silas. The man seems genuinely spooked. Meanwhile, the fire spreads, and the flames are beginning to lick at the bottom of Keith's boots.

“Where are you?!”

Silas spins around, looking anxiously, while Keith wonders from the ground. He takes a breath, and realizes that the threads aren't cutting into his chest anymore. Silas's control is slipping, but why? The man begins to run around the empty cathedral without rhyme or reason, scorpion tail still swishing back and forth, like an agitated dog. Silas still can't see anything, and his screams grow more frantic.

 _Control_ , Keith realizes. _This guy feeds off of control._

Lance isn't within this guy's killing stage, where all the bugs are carefully set. He's losing control of the situation, and his hold on the bugs is weakening. Whatever these threads are attached to, they've begun to mill about or panic, and the threads loosen and tighten at erratic intervals. It's enough though. Keith can escape whenever he wants.

“Stop yelling, man. Were you seriously about to torture him?” Lance scolds.

“It was his fault for burning all the corpses!”

The words put Lance at a pause, and his voice disappears, replaced only by Silas's screaming and the wood crackling as the Molotov burns away. Keith takes this chance to wiggle out while Silas is facing away. His back scrapes against the ground, and he desperately ignores the spiders running all around him as he finally slides out and jumps to his feet. 

“Die," Lance says, simply and clearly.

Glass shatters and rains down from the center of the cathedral, and a bullet smacks Silas straight in the chest. Lance stands up high at the base of the circular window, back-lit by moonlight as he smacks away bits of glass still in the frame. It's so cheesy looking Keith almost feels sick, and he bets the dumbass planned it to look like that. Silas stumbles back up, his perfect clothes finally disheveled and dirtied with dust.

“You'll need to do better than that!” he shrieks, revealing his armor of beetles.

The beetles have a dull glow under the moonlight, and Lance nearly falls off the sill screaming at the sight.

“You look like a loser!” Keith screams in response to Lance.

Keith's peircing voice helps Lance regain some of his composure, and he shakily flashes a suave grin at Keith.

“Really? I finished my job early and decided to check on you!”

Keith holds his chin as he looks up and down Lance with concern.

“Are you a gigolo?”

“...The _fuck_ , Keith?”

Pants that look painted on, a fitted looking coat with a collar that opens up dangerously wide – Keith merely gestures around his chest area. Lance goes red and quickly clasps up his jacket, his face flushed from ear to ear. The way his shoulders slump is enhanced by the moonlight, and Keith realizes that embarrassment is a nice look for Lance. It actually makes the man shut up for once.

“Th-these are my work clothes, and I just came back from somewhere really  _hot-_ shit that still sounds bad,” Lance wails, pitching himself back in a dramatic show of despair.

“Don't ignore me!”

Another bullet nails Silas in the chest, but it's deflected by the beetles as usual. Smoke drifts from the muzzle of Lance's gun, and his eyes widen. He begins rapidly firing into Silas's chest, into the same spot over and over again, but more and more beetles spill out of the holes on him, making up for any that die. The speed that Lance is firing at is amazing, but blood begins to drip down his wrist.

 _The recoil is opening up the wound again,_ Keith realizes.

The scorpion bulges from Silas's back like some grotesque tumor, but it's already dying. Keith can _feel_ it, how it's suffocating now that Silas isn't giving it enough oxygen.

Lance reaches for his revolver, and Keith snaps into attention.

“No! You can't kill him or we won't get the bounty!”

Lance's movements choke up, and his next shot veers to the far right. His other hand stops reaching for the revolver, to Keith's relief. Lance switches tactics.

“Wimp!” Lance taunts. “Get up here if you wanna _really_ fight, you washed out MMA loser!”

His continuous shots take up all of Silas's attention, as he needs more and more beetles, but Lance's words set him over the edge. Keith, forgotten, lights another Molotov from the fire which is beginning to rage out of control.

“You'll regret that!”

“Fat chance! Loser! Wimp!”

Silas is still attached to the rafters, and he shoots up, swinging for Lance. At that moment, Keith tosses the Molotov with all his strength.

The bottle sails through the air, and smashes straight onto Silas. He erupts in flames, and while his fireproof spider threads still swing him towards Lance.

"Keep your nasty bugs away from me," Lance snaps, slamming down the butt of his gun onto SIlas's head.

 

The two of them watch the church burn up. Keith walks over, sighing at the fire. A small crowd is beginning to converge around the church, murmuring and pointing. If anything, he's glad that the smoke is covering up the scent of rot on him.

“The police and firefighters are coming?” Lance asks.

“Yeah, but luckily I don't think they'll dock this from the bounty.”

“Cool.”

Keith doesn't ask Lance about his real job. Maybe he's scared. Silas groans at their feet, wrapped up in a thorough layer of duct tape. A shudder runs through Lance everytime he sees the tape twitch in odd places.

The moon has begun to move through the sky, and it illuminates them both, while the flames add a warm, flickering glow to their faces. Keith's stings swell up, making his face look like a lumpy mess. It's enough to make Lance break out into gut-busting laughter, as he pitches forward, pointing at Keith's face with tears beading up at the corner of his eyes.

“Oh, shit! Your face is  _so_ fucked!”

It's a bright laugh that sounds and looks like nothing else Keith has ever seen from Lance. Lance is glowing from moonlight and fire, swaying in front of Keith with such honest happiness that Keith can't help but let the scowl melt off his face for the moment. He also tries to smile, but the stings burn, prompting another wave of laughter from Lance.

Lance looks happy, but also so, so tired. It reminds Keith of Shiro.

They're not men at all.

Just two dumbass kids.

“Lemme search up what's good for bee stings-”

“Wasps.”

“Huh?”

“They're wasp stings,” Keith clarifies.

“Oh, okay. By the way, you totally owe me now, you know that?”

Exasperation and disgust wells up in Keith in a wave, but he hides it.

“Fine, you don't need to cook for me anymore.”

Lance's fingers stop typing, and he shoots up, wide-eyed.

“Wh-what? Uh, I mean, no! Those are two different things! I owe you for helping me out, and now you owe me for saving you ass! Those are two different things!” he blurts out.

Keith stares at the other boy in confusion. Lance _wants_ to keep owing him for this? Whatever. More money in his pocket.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

Keith hides a soft smile while pretending to adjust the collar of his jacket. If he's being honest here, eating with someone is, well, _fun._ Arguing about nonsense and talking about random stuff over food – it's been a long time since Keith feels he's been able to enjoy himself like this. He's been craving human interaction without even realizing it, even if it's coming from someone as annoying as Lance. He's _happy_ that Lance is still going to come over, to his horror. He better make sure the dumbassery doesn't rub off on him.

Lance sighs in relief at Keith's nonchalant reply, and they start hearing the sirens just in time. Firefighters jump out of truck, ready to take down the flames, and a few police come over. One group hauls away Silas in an armored truck, and another officer comes to brief Keith. The policeman recites his familiar spiel on about how to get the bounty at a Sweepers headquarters in town, and that the police will escort Keith and his partner there as proof-

“Whoa! I'm not his partner!” Lance interjects. The policeman looks at how the two of them are covered in soot, unconvinced.

“Um, he's...” Keith's voice trails off. What the _hell_ is Lance?

“He's a friend,” he finishes lamely.

He looks to his side to see Lance's response, but Lance only stares blankly into the distance. It takes a few seconds, but he soon shoves his hands into his pockets and flashes a faint smile at Keith.

“Yes! We're friends!" he declares to the officer, before facing the other boy. "I need to shower and change. You should too," he tells Keith, "you smell like corpses.”

“Ah? I thought the smoke covered up the smell!”

“It's super gross! You smell like rotting blood!”

“No worries, I can't smell it,” the policeman says, trying to reassure Keith.

Lance walks away with a wave.

“See you at your place? I'll bring vinegar for the stings.”

“Yeah.”

The policeman watches the two, coming to his own conclusions.

“That's a good friend," he comments.

Keith watches Lance disappear into the darkness, and he feels his exhaustion suddenly hitting him like a brick.

“I guess so. Haven't murdered him yet, so that's a plus.”

 

The isolation cell is painfully bare, and it's completely lit up. Silas is covered up with patches of Kevlar chemically sealed to all the insect openings on his skin.Three guards watch him like a hawk, ready to ring an alarm at the sign of a single bug trying to nibble through any of the patches. The jumpsuit has a built-in straightjacket that also binds him to a reinforced steel chair welded to the ground. Behind the blindfold and the gag covering his entire lower face, Silas glares and grinds his teeth.

How dare that black-haired boy call him pathetic.

How dare the boy who shot at him call him a loser?

How dare they shame him like this?

He hasn't even reached his peak as an athlete of killing. He can't go to prison now, but this time they won't take any chances. The boy will black hair probably has told the authorities about Silas's true skill.

The chances that he'll be able to so easily escape next time are astronomically low.

In fact, they might keep him like this for the rest of his life.

Muffled screams echo from outside his cell, and he hears the door swing open. A pair of hands rip off his face coverings, and he's greeted by two men in spotless purple and black clothes. From behind the one-way glass, flesh and blood is splattered all over the walls and onto the ceiling. Intestines are uncoiled over the ground, the partially digested food dribbling out over pieces of what used to be an arm. The smell drifts over to Silas, painfully familiar.

“Galra,” he snarls at them. “What does a crime syndicate want with me?”

One of the men smiles, revealing almost too much of his perfect white teeth and healthy pink gums.

“Your skills, Mr. Entamon. Our leader has heard of your... exploits. We want to recruit you. In our organization, we can give you challenges and thrills, as well as the chance to further your abilities.”

The other man speaks up, revealing an equally eerie and wide smile.

 

* * *

 

 

“Have you heard of... _Quintessence_?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was pretty awkward searching up molotovs and stuff... On the other hand, I reacquainted myself with the Schmidt Pain Index, and it is HILARIOUS. It's a scale from 1-4+, and Schmidt describes the bite of a bullet ant as being 4.0+, and I shit you not, "[like] walking over flaming charcoal with a 3-inch nail in your heel". He also very eloquently describes the sting of a bald-faced hornet (2.0) as being "[rich], hearty, slightly crunchy. Similar to getting your hand mashed in a revolving door". Like, ALL of his descriptions are that same, nonchalant and flowery tone and I LOVE it.


	4. Not Frenemies, At Least

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two learn how to understand each other a tiny bit better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE RISEN BACK FROM THE DEAD!!!!!!!!
> 
> As usual, I need to thank all of you for all the lovely comments. I'm seriously not kidding when I say they keep me going and make my day; you all are so nice and wonderful!

Keith lazes about in a t-shirt and shorts, the stings on his face swelling but not hurting anymore. An old crime drama plays on the TV, and the actress has just opened the door to her pitch black apartment. She calls for her husband, growing more and more visibly nervous as he doesn't respond.

“Just turn on the lights,” Keith mutters, his entire body almost falling off the couch. The screeching floorboards outside make him glance at the door. At this time of the night, any creaking usually goes towards the opposite end of the hall as some trashy boyfriend goes to harass his hapless girlfriend. However, the creaking comes towards his end of the hall, and Keith gets up with a sigh, his movements stiff and tired. He's already undoing the whole litany of locks on the door frame before Lance can even start pounding on the door. Maybe the energetic boy can hear him unbolting and unhooking all of this shit, because Lance actually waits patiently for him to finish. Keith swings open the door right as the actress on TV screams in horror upon finding her husband dead on the ground, eyes still wide open.

“I'm here!” Lance announces with a hop and cheer, hair still damp.

He also waves a bottle of white vinegar in Keith's face before ducking under the boy's arm and into the apartment. Keith shuts the door and starts locking everything up again, while Lance shrugs off a thick jacket and tosses it onto the couch.

By the time Keith twists the last deadbolt and ambles over, Lance is already soaking pads of gauze in vinegar. He can see Lance scrutinizing his puffy face, but Keith takes the initiative and cuts Lance off first.

“Don't you dare!”

He gives Lance some credit for trying to keep a straight face, and the guy eventually finds something non-irritating to say.

“So, the shower didn't help?”

Keith stares back with narrowed eyes, gesturing to the stings. Lance sighs and nods, beginning to stick pads of gauze onto Keith's face. He's so careful that Keith can't help but swallow as Lance's fingertips drift over his skin. Lance turns Keith's face from one side to another as if Keith were a small child, and he makes sure to stick the gauze on with care, so that it won't hurt.

It's so mindful that Keith can't help but be reminded of Shiro.

 

 _“_ _Shiro, you don't need to_ _be so slow_ _!”_

_The man pouts, but he continues to take his time with Keith's injuries._

_“On the battlefield we might need to hurry, but we should take our time when we can. There's no use needlessly hurrying through life.”_

_“I... guess so?” Keith replies. He lets his head lean to the side so that Shiro can apply antiseptic to a cut on his neck._

_Shiro laughs and ruffles Keith's hair, to the boy's irritation._

_“You'll get it when you're a tiny bit older, I guess!”_

_“You mean if I make it that long,”_ _Keith_ _complains, looking to the side_ _._

_There's a pause, before Shiro gives Keith another appreciative ruffle._

_“I won't let you die. I promise,” he says, his voice quiet and low. It's enough to make Keith perk back up, and he shoots Shiro an expectant look, his lips tightly pressed together._

_“Then you can't die either. Promise?” he asks, raising a calloused pinky finger._

_Shiro, with way too much seriousness for a twenty-five year old man, extends his own and they link the two fingers together._

_“Promise.”_

 

“Aaaaand, done!”

“Hm? Okay,” Keith mumbles, poking at the gauze as he makes his way out of a daydream. Lance rolls up the sleeves of his shirt as he heads to the fridge, showing off the fresh new bandage on his forearm.

“That was bleeding again back there. Is it alright?”

“Oh man, you should have seen what the doctor said! She said I nearly ripped my arm open again! _A_ _ll_ my stitches had to get redone, and-!”

“I get it, I get it!” Keith yells with a groan. “You want any help with dinner?”

“Huh?”

Lance's self-pitying and dramatic expression dies in seconds, only to be replaced by a big, dopey look. His hand snakes up to squeeze his pendant.

“W-Well, um, it's not _that_ bad, you don't need to help! As if I'd let a little thing like this bother me-”

“You _just_ talked about how bad it was.”

He falls silent, looking away and trying to think of something say.

Keith waits and watches Lance squirm.

“Sooooo?” he says, feigning impatience and feeling a smirk crawl up his face.

Lance's lips pucker up in indignation, but in the end he lets out a sharp breath and goes straight back to work, refusing to admit defeat.

“Who cares?” Lance snaps, looking more like he's water-boarding the vegetables instead of washing them. Keith clicks his tongue and drops down on a seat at the counter, grabbing the remote with him to turn up the volume. Ads for various other shows and random infomercials play from the TV's ancient speakers, tinny and muddled. Once more, the two settle into something that could be called a routine.

Lance dries off the peppers and broccoli and starts slicing onions on the cutting board, but his actions are stiffer than before. His nose wrinkles up in distaste from something other than the onions.

“Did you mix the Molotovs in here?” Lance asks, looking around in confusion. Keith scoffs and waves a hand dismissively.

“No way! I kinda live here, y'know? The last thing I need is to be choking on fumes in my own apartment,” he says. Still, the boy takes a moment to pause and think. “Well, when I was prepping in here, one of them leaked a bit. What do you smell?”

“Let's see, some gasoline, acetone, and... Lighter fluid, I think.”

Lance jolts back as he notices Keith staring at him, eyes wide and mouth open.

“What? You can seriously smell all of that? That's exactly what I used in the Molotovs, but I swear I only spilled a few drops, and I cleaned it right up-”

“Don't worry about it!” Lance chirps, his usual cheery tone just slightly forced. “I just get paranoid when I can smell chemicals in the air.”

 _Drop it, please drop it,_ he prays as Keith's shock fades into intrigue.

Keith's eyes narrow, and he rests his head on the counter, the gauze feeling wet on his skin.

“Listen, no one's fooling anyone here. It's pretty damn obvious you're not normal.”

Lance's reaches up for the bladed hair pin near the nape of his neck-

“But I won't pry. It's got nothing to do with me.”

It's all Lance needs to hear in order to make his hands drop back to his sides.

“Yeah. That's perfect,” he mumbles, but he keeps talking, even when he knows he shouldn't.

“Um, what about you?” Lance pauses, tightening his grip on the cooking knife. “You're not totally normal either, right? That technique you used to cut down the door – It took you some time to use it, so I recognized it. That skill is something way too advanced for someone our age, unless you've been training really hard ever since you were little. Really, _r_ _eally_ hard.”

Keith sits straight up in an instant, teeth bared.

“What did I _just_ say about not prying?” he snarls, reaching under the counter towards his thigh.

“ _So,_ ” Lance breathes, interrupting Keith, “We both know we're hiding shit from each other. It's even.”

It sounds so bizarre that Keith stops reaching for his knife.

“ _Even_?” he asks, clipping the syllables.

“Yeah. We're even. So now that we're on equal terms again, we're still technically friends, right?”

Lance sounds so eager that Keith can feel even his own shriveled heart hurt. He arches his head back and bursts into laughter, leaving his whole neck exposed in front of Lance, who's holding a big, sharp cooking knife.

And here Keith thought that he must have been the only one that desperate and lonely to actually enjoy spending so much time with a boy who feels like death. To be so miserable that he doesn't care that Lance sometimes has the eyes of a frigid killer and then seconds later can have the happiest, brightest stare Keith has ever seen in his life, in stark contrast to Shiro's kind eyes, which are so soft and dark.

Who knew that Lance was just as fucked up?

“You're serious?” Keith says as he finally calms down, a twisted smile stretched over his jaw, “You think this entire, fucked up arrangement is...” he mumbles, trailing off.

Lance startles as Keith looks directly at him. It takes a moment, but Keith realizes that this is the closest he's ever seen Lance's eyes under bright lighting. There's barely a foot of distance between the two of them.

 _They're not black,_ Keith thinks with some surprise, _his irises are dark blue._

An uncomfortable silence stretches between the two of them as Keith's mind wanders some more.

What even is friendship? They eat food together, he doesn't hate hanging out with him, and Lance has officially saved him now. Lance says they're even now, that they're equal, and that's technically a big part of friendship too, right? Who cares about the other awkward stuff that doesn't have to do with the logistics of friendships?

That's not part of the intricacies of friendship, so even if they're uncomfortable, they don't matter. Cut off the irrelevant and complicated stuff. That's the conclusion Keith decides to come to.

“Shit. I guess we're friends then,” he grumbles, breaking their eye contact with a grimace. Lance exhales quietly, rolling his pendant between his thumb and pointer-finger. There's a new dryness in his throat that makes speaking difficult, and he clears his throat a few times, drawing Keith's attention once more.

“I'm cooking stir-fry again.”

“Sounds good.”

“Do you wanna mix up the sauce while I'm cutting this stuff?”

“Sure.”

“Cool. Oh, shit. I'll cut up some garlic while you mix up the other stuff.”

Keith gets off the stool, his legs stiff as he goes behind the counter next to Lance. Lance's eyes dart down to where the knife is on Keith's leg, before he looks back at the onions. Did Keith really think he wouldn't notice? The other boy wastes no movement as he ducks down for a small mixing bowl and a fork. Lance is already peeling a few cloves of garlic, and Keith watches Lance freeze his methodical movements.

“Didn't ask you last time, but how garlicky do you like your food?” Lance asks.

“I like a lot.”

“Cool. Same here.”

Keith reaches out towards Lance, withdraws, then grabs some garlic. He peels cloves with Lance, his pale fingers clumsy and slow compared to Lance's dark and deft ones.

“So you're telling me that the only thing that's similar about us two so far is that we like garlic and are both are fucked up. This sucks."

“Sure does,” Lance drawls, ignoring the new buzz from his phone. “I hope there's other stuff, or being friends with you is just gonna get worse and worse.”

“That's my line. At least you're not the worst to hang out with.”

“You too, but your creepy-as-fuck staring contest just made me completely re-evaluate that.”

“Huh. You don't hate me either. Didn't expect that.”

Two freshly-peeled cloves of garlic fall onto the cutting board.

“Did the cop buy what you told him?” Lance asks.

“It's not a lie anymore, so he can't suspect shit.”

“Cool. The bounty?”

“Enough left over that I don't need to worry about money for now.”

“Taking your word for it then.”

Another two cloves of garlic fall onto the cutting board.

They both reach for a non-existent bulb of garlic at the same time, their hands brushing against each other. Lance looks at the empty space, as he realizes that he already used the other half of the bulb a few days ago. He needs to get some more. The TV feels a lot louder too, now that he and Keith aren't having some of the most awkward heart-to-heart conversations known to man.

The episode of the crime drama ends with a fade-to-black as the husband points a gun at two shocked detectives, and the credits go though a fast-forward zoom while the beginnings of late night news play to the side. It's generic stuff about robberies and vandalism, but it's the new announcement that makes his eyes widen. He raps his knuckles against Keith's shoulder, ignoring the boy's yelp of pain to point at the screen as the credits fade, and the news transitions to full screen.

A banner scrolls across the bottom of the screen with big, flashing words that make Keith's jaw drop.

_SERIAL KILLER ESCAPES CUSTODY._

It's the anchorwoman's pale face and less-than-perfect makeup that seals the deal as she reads off her teleprompter, her voice unsteady and lacking its usual clarity.

“Breaking news! Despite us reporting the apprehension of Silas Entamon only hours before, we have just gotten word that Entamon has escaped from custody after destroying his restraints and brutally murdering two guards. Authorities tell us that he was most likely assisted in his escape, and that all citizens are to not to approach him at any cost. If seen, please call emergency services as soon as possible.”

Keith stares at the screen venomously for a good number of seconds, trying to find the right words to say.

“As if this day couldn't get any worse. Fuck us both,” he spits.

Lance's phone vibrates again. Once. Twice. Thrice.

His mood and energy sours and saps away with every buzz.

“You don't say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that you guys don't have Keith and Lance the sweeper duo yet, but c'mon -- Lance needs to leave Garrison with a BANG~!
> 
> On the other hand, school is rapidly approaching, so updates might get... Even more irregular, haha...


	5. They All Love You, You Know?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, the best thing going for this job right now is the free rent and full coverage health insurance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Probably sound like a broken record at this point, but thanks again for all the comments~!
> 
> This was a fun chapter to write, but poor Keith really took a back seat here, as well as Pidge and Hunk =_=...

Keith's a hard guy to get along with. He's got enough self-awareness to know that when people talk to him, they don't really want to later. He can be cold, callous, and awkward without even meaning to. Shiro was kind of a saint like that. The man was patient, listened to the boy, and didn't hold a grudge. Maybe Keith would get into a bad mood about some little thing, and Shiro would try to help him cheer up.

Shiro _understood_.

Shiro understood Keith so effortlessly that he was sure he'd never find someone who could know him that well for the rest of his life, however short it might have been working for Garrison.

The point was, if you weren't Shiro, you either hated Keith's guts or dreaded working with the infamous Red, affectionately known to some of the Garrison attack squads as, “a frigid bitch of a guy”.

Which is why he honest-to-god has no idea how Lance is still sticking around, and that somehow the two of them have become friends. They're not at the level of the mythical “BFF's” that Keith's heard so much about, but he'd like to think they're also a little above “frenemies” as well.

Why's he thinking all of this?

Well, for the second time in two weeks, there's a container of rotting food at his doorstep.

He picks up the heavy dish with a hand and holds it up towards the flickering hallway light, as if seeing it better will somehow magically make the food edible again. The vegetables and meat inside are already growing a thick layer of gray fuzz, and the sauce covered in blue-gray splotches has clumped up. Keith's stomach does an uncomfortable flip, and he lowers the dish.

Is this some sort of bizarre punishment or prank for him? And for what reason?

“Honestly, just fuck him,” Keith grumbles.

He goes inside and washes the dish, emptying it out in disgust before going to shower and change. A little while later he heats up a frozen meal and goes to unlock one of the windows. An attic apartment might be cramped, but they also have the easiest roof access ever. With the meal balanced in one hand, all he needs to do is climb over the window sill.

On the roof, he takes a deep breath and relaxes, pulling the jacket around him a bit tighter. Spring is coming soon, but at night it's still chilly. As he eats, he looks up at the stars, trying to remember all the constellations Shiro taught him. Orion's Belt is as easy as ever to find, but Shiro told him that in some cultures they're also known as the Three Sisters. Shiro said he was going to tell Keith the stories behind Orion's Belt and the Three Sisters before he disappeared. No use thinking about something like that right now. Right here and right now is his private little slice of heaven. Keith breathes out in relief and lets his head tilt back, watching the puffs of cold air that come of his mouth dissipate into the stars.

 

The skirt of the maid uniform floats and flutters behind Lance as he wheels a cart of beverages to his target's office. Who still employs maids and has them wear french dresses in this day and age?

“This guy's a grade-A perv,” Lance mutters to himself. The long wig is pulled behind his ears in a loose braid, and the sooner he can ditch this outfit the better. Hardwood floors make sneaking around in these heels almost impossible, and when he asked the head maid if he could wear flats, she balked and stared at Lance in horror.

“Plain, proper black heels are required by the master!” she had screeched, her drooping eyes the widest he'd ever seen them be, and the spittle flying out of her mouth almost hitting his face. She waited for him expectantly, and Lance could only look down at the ground and hide his gritting teeth.

“...Heels, then.”

 

“What a pain, what a fucking pain, and what a _perv_ ,” he keeps mumbling to himself as his heels click and the cart rattles over the floor. The place is so big there's actually an elevator here _just for the maids_.

“'Kill the trafficker and secure the location until Garrison can take custody of the products' – easier said than done!” he snaps under his breath.

Lance isn't dumb. His recent targets have all been involved in the skill-user trafficking operation. Those damned Elders are trying to use only him to dismantle the operation, and it doesn't matter how ragged he gets run down in the process.

“Hope Keith got the fucking food at least,” he mutters. The last thing he needs to know is that Keith's starved to death or has finally died from a frozen-meal only lifestyle while Lance was busy getting funneled from mission to mission.

Also, do they really need to still call the kids “products”? He saw the briefings – they're all just kids being used by criminals for their Skills. He bets the Garrison are going to try to turn them into Colors, or at least other agents.

Maybe this entire mission is just a way to recruit fresh meat for the organization, now that he's the only combat Color left.

Mafia in plain suits begin to increase in number as he nears Meldav's office, and he lowers his head in respect as they pass, pausing for a second to adjust his apron, or to tuck stray locks behind his ear – maybe even strike a short conversation with some. Only a week in and none of them straighten up in attention around him anymore, so he considers this an infiltration well done.

“Lailah, it's you again?” one of the men asks, frowning at the large cart. “Usually the new maids don't get so much work, and they're always making you roll around that heavy cart,” he notes with concern.

Lance laughs softly, and smiles in return. As long as he keeps his enunciation light and doesn't strain his throat, he can pass his voice off as just that of a contralto-toned woman.

“Thanks for worrying. That's so nice of you... Um, Benedetto, right?”

The man blushes, and he runs a hand through his short brown hair, green eyes tilted to the side.

“O-oh, you remembered! I'm very grateful for that,” Benedetto says, his smile sweet and unspoiled.

“Well, I've been here for a week already, right? All the other maids have been pushing drinks duty onto me just because I have a little muscle!” Lance whines in mock exhaustion, throwing an arm over his head with all the flair and dramatics he can muster. It's enough to get a chuckle out of the young mafia man.

“And because you're new, you can't say no? I see even the maids have it difficult here,” Benedetto says, peeking at the nape of Lance's neck. As if Lance won't notice. Well, it's all he can look at, anyway. Lance keeps the collar of the dress high up, so that the turtleneck of the combat suit he wears underneath won't be seen.

“Mm, but it's alright,” Lance replies, batting his lashes and holding his chin in mock innocence. “I'm very lucky to have gotten a job, and I also have nice people like you to talk to, Benedetto! Ah, I can't keep master Meldav waiting. I'm sorry.”

“N-no! It's fine!” Benedetto says, startled, and he gives a small wave as Lance smiles and goes on. He can hear some of the other guards tease Benedetto as he rolls ahead. At the office entrance, the guards greet “Lailah” warmly.

“You again, Lailah?”

“Don't you ever get tired of serving that fat pig coffee and tea?” the second guard asks, quieter, but with a twinkle in his eye. They're both on older side, and their positions in the family have stagnated. Under Galra control, the Mafia are choked and pruned on a constant basis. According to the sources Lance read up on, the Mafia used to have a good amount of power, but they also had a code of honor. This child-trafficking business would've spit in the face of that code.

“Whenever I see you doing well, I hope that my own daughter isn't doing too badly either,” the second guard says, smiling. The words make Lance's chest hurt, but no trace of it ever shows on his face.

“...I'm sure she's doing just fine, especially if she's as hardworking as her father.”

“Haha, a charmer as usual. Here, I'll let you in.”

“Thank you.”

Lance enters in, and the doors shut. He discreetly locks them behind him, and pushes ahead towards the mahogany desk at the far end of this massive study. Guards flank Meldav as he works at his desk, but the difference here is that he hasn't gotten the time to know and charm all three of these these men in expensive purple-and-black suits.

This time however, there's something new, and it takes all of his effort to keep his head low and body language unchanged. A girl with pale hair stands by the desk with oozing burns on her arms. The same girl who cut open his arm. On the desk there are cigarette butts crammed into an ashtray. As usual, he says nothing as he heads to the desk, and waits patiently for them to speak. The girl's eyes widen as she sees him, but to his immense relief, she keeps quiet. Lance's beating heart slows down to a more reasonable pace.

“Get me a coffee,” Meldav asks, not even looking up from his paperwork. “Don't forget, _exactly_ three sugars and three creams.”

“Yes, master.”

There's three stacks of paper on the desk, three pens – three of everything. Even three ashtrays. Only one of them is filled though. Lance glances at the girl. The cigarette burns on her are in clusters of three. There's even a trio on her collarbone.

“Oh, that?” Meldav says, gesturing to the girl, “She failed a mission and tried to escape, so we're punishing her. We hold everyone in this estate to the same standard of perfection, no matter what their job is, understand?”

The girl's ankle chain rattles as Lance nods.

“Yes, master.”

This asshole doesn't even hold back on threatening the maids. No wonder it's only been a week in, and Lance already has direct access to the man. Meldav scans a document, then scowls and breaks his pen in half, making Lance pretend to jump in fear. He can't blow his cover, not after this perfect chance has come. He's personally delivered drinks, but never to Meldav's private office. The man yells again and sweeps an arm across his desk, throwing the perfect threes to the ground.

“Light!” he snaps, biting down onto a fresh cig. At the word, the girl flinches and bites her lip. One of the guards leans over to open up a lighter, and soon Meldav is puffing along. He lifts the cigarette from his lips and extends it towards the girl, who tightly shuts her eyes. She reveals the back of her hand, one of the few spaces just big enough on her arms for another three burns.

It's just about all Lance can take.

The boy flips up his skirt and flings two knives directly into the foreheads of the each guard. Meldav tries to shout for more guards, but Lance darts in and chokes the man, squeezing with all his strength. His windpipe cracks, and Lance's grip collapses in around the man's neck. He finishes him off quickly by dislodging Meldav's brain stem. Meanwhile, the girl is shaking and pale, and as Lance stands up and faces her, she finds her voice again. Before she can scream, Lance flash-steps in front of her to stun her, and places a finger to his lips, trying to shush her.

“Um, Sasha, right? I'm here to... Get you and the other kids out of here!” he whispers. Sasha blinks at Lance, and she takes a step back, tripping over the chain. Lance loops around to catch her, and he apologizes again.

“Sorry, sorry!”.

It takes some more time, but eventually something ekes out of her.

“Y-you... You won't kill me, for hurting you?”

“No, nooooo,” Lance reassures as he gently sets Sasha back on her feet. He pulls a few lock picks from his skirt and starts messing with the padlock keeping the chain around her ankle.

“So, tell me about yourself,” he asks, trying to keep her calm. “Any favorite foods you have or hobbies?”

She flat out ignores the questions, her eyes wide and unfocused.

“Big brother was actually a big sister?” she rambles to herself, the shock not quit out of her system yet.

“No, I'm a big brother, I was only dressing like this to get close to Meldav,” he explains, tapping the tumblers into place.

“You aren't going to change?”

“I'm only wearing a combat suit underneath, and it's meant to be tight enough to be layered over. Honestly it's _way_ too embarrassing to wear in the open, even if you're planning on killing everyone.”

“Oh. Um, you'll help us all escape?”

“Yeah, but I'll need your help to know where all the rest are, okay?”

“I-I get it.”

The lock pops open, and Sasha easily slips her leg out from the chain. Lance offers her a hand and she stares at it, puzzled.

“Huh?”

“Lemme see your arms. I wanna see if we can take care of those burns.”

Her jaws drops, and she gestures to the three bodies, flailing her arms.

“B-but-?!”

“S'fine. They're dead, and the guards at the front door don't give a shit about this guy. I was planning on just strolling out, finding the kids on my own, and killing everyone else that tried to get in my way while the Garrison forces come.”

Sasha slowly extends her arms, and Lance winces, making Sasha flinch in response. He smiles sheepishly and pauses to shake his head. This girl is really good at reading faces, huh?

“Sorry. It's not you. Those look like they really hurt, huh?” he asks, trying to change the tone of his voice to something more sweet and comforting. Lance goes to the cart to get some ice, and he wraps it in a towel to place over the worst of the burns.

“The bastards,” he mutters, looking at how they ooze.

“If you want, I can directly take you there.”

Lance's eyes widen, and his head snaps up.

“Nah, you don't have to! I shouldn't get a kid involved in something so dangerous. If you tell me where the others are, that's already a huge help. Hide in the shadows in the office.”

“But... I want to help. I... I don't want to be so scared anymore.”

“Getting involved with an assassin is already pretty scary stuff, y'know?” Lance argues, but she keeps a stiff bottom lip and glares at him, determined to do _something._ Maybe it's because he's nice to her, or it's because she's cut open his arm before, but Sasha doesn't seem scared of him at all.

Soon, all he can do is just smile at her. “Fine, if you say so. This might sound mean, but I'm kinda glad you failed my mission, even if you got hurt because of it. If you're gonna kill, it's probably better to do it when you're older, when you've got a steadier perspective on life. That gets a little wonky if you start too young.”

“...Is that what happened to you?”

“Mm, keep that a secret, okay? I haven't even told my best friend about that. He doesn't know when I started this job.”

He's not lying. He only met Hunk during Garrison training, and even when Hunk heard about how Rowan personally trained him, he never said for how long.

“Secret between just the two of us?” she asks shyly.

“Just between the two of us,” Lance replies.

 

“Benedetto, my man! You owe me so much!”

“What?” he says, shocked as Angelo slings an arm over him.

“I have a message to give Meldav, buuuut, why don't you give it instead? Maybe you can flirt a bit with that tall maid while you're at it! Did you hear? Apparently she asked if she could wear flats, but then Maria threw a fit! She must be so shy about her height, I bet. With those heels, she's even taller than you!”

Benedetto blushes and tries to push the other man off.

“Come on, what could I even do with Meldev in the room? I really admire that courage of hers though – Only a maid and she doesn't even bat an eye when it comes to serving murderers tea.”

“I don't know? You could see her? Maybe walk her out? Anyways, just take it!” his friend insists, shoving the folded paper in Benedetto's palm.

“Fine, fine,” he sighs, agreeing to a drink with the other man tonight in exchange.

He tries to retrace Lailah's steps as he goes down the hall, wondering if maybe the wheels of the cart were caught on the divet in the floorboards there, or if she paused to check if her skirt got caught on one of the metal railings near the steps.

Lailah's tall, flat-chested, and lanky, but she carries around with her an unmistakeable charm and poise; enough to make even the most grizzled members here crack a smile. She makes people around her happy, and it's all Benedetto could ever want in just a person, let alone a lover.

Well, potential lover. She's seems so innocent around him, and it seems like she's never been in a relationship before. She probably sees him only as a coworker who happens to be very kind. An unsteady career in the criminal enterprises probably isn't helping out his chances either. What Lailah really deserves is a guy with a steady, safe job. Benedetto sighs and carries on, and the guards at the doors greet him with enthusiasm.

“Oh, here to deliver a message? Lailah is still here, so lucky you!”

His face reddens, and that only elicits more teasing.

“You guys are terrible,” he mutters.

The older one of the bunch pats him on the shoulder.

“You're a good man, Benedetto. We're all rooting for you.”

“It's only been a week and you're treating her like a daughter, Alessandro,” Bendetto says, smiling.

“What can I say? She's almost as charming as my little girl. Head in.”

“Yes, thank you.”

He closes his eyes as he walks in, making sure to take a deep breath as he hears the doors close behind him.

“Boss-”

Benedetto's voice chokes off as he sees the scene in front of him. Meldav and the two Galra men are dead, while Lailah cradles the hands of an injured Skill-user girl. In an instant, Lailah disappears before his eyes and re-appears right in front of him, holding a gun to his forehead.

“Sorry, Benedetto.”

“W-wait!” Benedetto whispers through his teeth, raising his arms in defeat.

“Yes?”

Lailah's voice suddenly sounds so low and serious.

“I... I want to help you. We all hate Meldav, and as for the children... It goes against what we stand for. If you're an eraser from Garrison, then I'll help.”

The cold look in Lailah's eyes softens, but the gun doesn't drop. It's almost the size of her forearm, yet the barrel never wavers.

“Do you understand what you're doing? You'll be defecting from the Galra syndicate. They'll hunt you down.”

Benedetto steels himself for what he's about to say.

“Then I'll become a pawn of Garrison.”

“...Why?” she asks, pained and confused, and her hoarse voice rises for a moment.

“Because I love you!”

In the back, a pale-haired girl's jaw drops, and Lailah's eyes widen. The gun drops to her side, and he can see panic and all sorts of emotions run through her face as she processes his words.

“Damn, your eyes – You're not lying. You're actually fucking serious.”

The girl runs over, looking between the both of them.

“Big b-”

“No, he doesn't know,” Lailah says, cutting off the girl. “Listen, has this guy ever hurt you?”

The girl shakes her head.

“I don't even recognize him.”

“Alright then. Sasha, meet Benedetto. Benedetto, this is Sasha. She's offered to directly take us to where the other kids are. Help me keep them safe while the Garrison comes to take custody.”

Benedetto looks at the wounds on Sasha's arms, frowning.

“What will happen to the children?”

“...I don't know. They'll probably be trained as agents, and some... will probably become erasers. Especially for those with a powerful Skill like Sasha's.”

“Isn't that no different than from what's happening to them now?”

“...As long as they'll be able to get a little freedom, it's better than being traded around like things.”

Benedetto doesn't push Lailah. She seems so sad.

“Anyway, why didn't you escape before, Sasha?” Lailah asks.

“The chain is bolted to the wall. I _need_ to move everything touching me with me when I go into shadows, but I wasn't strong enough or knowledgeable enough to snap the chain or pick the lock. Besides, you just said that it's better not to kill until you're older! Will we have to kill if we get taken by this Garrison thing?”

“Sorry sweetie,” Lailah sighs, cautiously patting Sasha's head, as to not scare the girl. Sasha frowns at the word “sweetie”, but to Benedetto, she looks a little happy too.

“They might force you guys to become erasers, but you guys will also go through aptitude testing, so with any luck you'll be put into espionage training. On the other hand, that best friend I mentioned? He's super, _super_ strong, but because he's so smart, he went into the technical training.”

Lance tries to shake off the image of Sasha fighting him that night – how swift and well-calculated her actions were for just a child. She's going to end up as an eraser, isn't she? And she'll get a little messed up in the head just like him. He glances down at her big, black eyes and ruffles her hair appreciatively again, grinding his teeth. This is too much to deal with, and he doesn't want to think about this anymore.

“Benedetto.”

“Y-yes?”

“Are you armed?”

The man pulls back his jacket to reveal a glock at his hip.

“I have spare magazines,” he softly says.

“Good.”

Lance shamelessly yanks up half of his skirt to check the holster at his thigh. Benedetto nearly chokes seeing the matte black and skin-tight suit underneath, and balks at the small armory of knives and magazines hidden under the skirt, which has been reinforced to look weightless, even while packing all that heat. Sasha notices the reaction, and she wonders if she should tell the man about the “big sister”.

Satisfied, Lance goes to cart and reaches under the table cloth to procure an assault rifle, checking over this gun as well. He flashes a dorky thumbs up at the two of them.

“Alright then! Sasha, do your magic!”

“You're a little insane, aren't you?” she mumbles, grabbing Lance's arm, before warily extending a hand towards Benedetto. The man sees the burns and warmly takes her hand.

“After this is all over, let me tend to your wounds, if you're alright with that?” he asks.

“...Yea. Thanks,” she answers. “I didn't know the mafia had such nice people.”

“It's because he's not suited for this kind of job,” Lance says without missing a beat. “Benedetto, if you're smart, you should leave right now. Maybe you'll have some use as a low-ranking informant for Garrison, but afterwards I bet they'll put you to eraser work too. If you leave right now, even Galra won't go after you – they'll probably just think you're a lucky survivor and won't hunt you down.”

“No,” the man says firmly, glancing at Lance. “I'd rather not work for such trash ever again. Besides, I hear that Garrison is an organization that acts for the benefit of the world.”

His words make Lance shift in discomfort, but Lance holds his tongue.

“I see. Sasha?”

“Let's go,” she whispers, and suddenly Lance wonders if this is what a block of ice feels like as it's melting. It's like losing all the strength in his body and going limp, but Sasha easily and strongly swims through the darkness as he and Benedetto are helplessly dragged along, flowing about in the black currents. Darkness wraps around them, soft and warm and comforting, but somehow he _feels_ Benedetto nearby stiffen, the discomfort traveling like a wave through the black.

The hour-like seconds end abrubtly as Sasha breaks from the shadows, dragging and flinging out Lance and Benedetto, who are gasping for air.

“Sasha!” a boy cries out, running over. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes!” she exclaims, “I brought over people who are here to help!”

Lance freezes as he feels thirty pairs of young eyes fall on him and Benedetto. They're not all friendly either. He coughs and crawls to his feet, realizing somehow that his wig is still on and that his clothes and weapons are in place too. He almost picks up the assault rifle and his other gun, but Benedetto touches his hand and shakes his head.

“Oh, you're right,” he mutters, and stands up with his hands up in the air.

“Listen up everyone, I work for an organization called Garrison. They, well, I won't lie to you guys. They wanna have all of you work for them as agents with your skills.”

“...We won't be sold?” a boy in the far corner of the cell asks.

Now that Lance has a better look around, he tries not to clench his fists in anger or let it show on his face, lest it scares the kids. The children are packed in here like sardines, with only a tiny toilet in the rest of the room, hence the terrible, terrible smell. Despite the tiny cell, there are bright lights shining from the ceiling, making sure they can barely sleep, keeping them weak and malleable, while the bare walls and the flat metal door don't do any wonders for the imagination either.

“You won't be sold,” he announces. “In fact, you guy's will get dorms to sleep in, three meals a day, and places to wash up. It might be hard during training, but at the very least, I don't think you guys will have to live as animals anymore.”

“Why should we trust you?” a girl right next to him snaps. He jumps and scoots a little to the side to face her better.

“You can't,” he says simply. “Trusting me is a gamble. In fact, even I'm not sure how much better your lives will be at Garrison. I just know that – No. Nevermind. It won't be considered as much suffering. That much I can assure everyone.”

He can't believe he was about to say that they'd be able to live like humans at that place. How can living as a Disposable be considered human?

It takes some time, but eventually he gets the kids on his side. He looks to the metal door and starts examining it, frowning. No wonder the kids couldn't get through, even with their skills. It looks almost seamless, and when he gives it a tap, the glove of his suit discharges the electric shock that the current running through it gives him. No hollow noise echoes off.

This is an issue.

Lance turns around and looks at all the kids in concern, biting his lip. He doesn't want to leave them alone.

“Benedetto. Can you... Take care of all the kids here? Keep them safe? Cheer them up a bit? Sasha, send me back to the office, and then come back down here to hide. I need to secure the estate, but I swear as soon as I find the key and clean up the area, I'll be coming back with Garrison forces to rescue you and everyone else.”

“I-I can do that,” she stutters.

“You're not going to kill everyone, are you?” Benedetto asks, frowning. “Even Alessandro? He has a daughter.”

“And he doesnt even keep in touch with her,” Lance snaps back, scowling.

“...Maybe you're too soft for this job either, Lailah,” Benedetto states. Annoyance flashes over Lance's face, and he can't help but respond with a little venom in his voice.

“That's where the difference is though. I _know_ I'm a big fat softie, and are you still calling me Lailah? It's totally a fake name, y'know?!”

“Yes, I understand. Your manner of speaking is different too, but you still have that poise and charm, even while holding those guns. I think... You were always acting as honest as you could around us. It must've been painful, knowing you had to kill them.”

Lance frowns and looks at Benedetto in the eyes.

“... I just told you that I'm going to kill everyone, but you're feeling sorry for _me_? What about your friends?!”

“I told you, this is the path I've chosen. I love you. I might seem a bit feeble-minded, but I assure you, once I've made a decision as big as this one, I pour my everything into it – even if it means saying goodbye to old friends.”

The words are oddly chilling, and Lance taps Sasha on the shoulder.

“Sasha, please.”

“Right.”

Before Lance gets pulled back into the shadows, he says one last thing to Benedetto.

“I was wrong. You're _very_ suited to this line of work.”

They arrive back in the office, next to the corpses. He bids Sasha farewell and sighs. He's going to need a new notebook after this, isn't he? With his handgun in one hand and the assault rifle in his other, he marches to the door.

The end of this lovely stint as a maid has finally come, hasn't it?

He kicks his heels onto the carpet as he stretches his feet. Miniscule metal plates and rubber grips flow like water over the soles of the combat suit with his every movement. Lance lifts up a leg, then slams it square into the doors, flinging them open and smashing them into the faces of the guards. Before Alessandro and the other guard can even react, Lance flash-steps out past the threshold and shoots them both in the head.

“Lai-!”

Lance grits his teeth and ignores the choked off call.

“Hate me all you want in hell,” Lance murmurs to Alessandro as more guards come, drawn by the sound of shots.

 

It's rough, but Lance plucks the keys off a guard, right as Garrison forces arrive. The ground is littered with corpses, while the only marks on him are some bloodstains on the outfit. Various attack groups swarm the estate, picking off anyone still left, and another one trails behind him as he marches down the hallway towards the cell, swinging the ring of keycards on a finger. He feels a bit bad for the older agents behind him, having to follow and listen to some crossdressing youngster as he explains the situation at hand to them.

“Don't point your guns at the kids, alright? They're jumpy, and the last thing we need are casualties just because _somebody_ was being too trigger happy,” he scolds, glaring at one person in particular. The woman chuckles and scratches her head sheepishly.

“Sorry Blue! Won't happen again!”

Her teammates come to her defense, vouching for all that she's done in the meantime.

“C'mon, give 'er a break, Blue! Th' gal's amazin' for a newbie!”

“Yeah! Diane could give you a run for your money at the shooting range, Blue!”

“As if,” Lance scoffs, but he still smiles at them.

“I'm serious!” the woman argues, “I even did an extra round of re-conditioning!”

That's what makes Lance wince.

“For real? You seriously didn't have to do that – Re-conditioning sucks,” he groans, “You feel all sick!”

“That's just you, since you're so sensitive to the chemicals.”

“And I'm happy about that! They have to always give me a lower dosage 'cause of that! Anyways, guns down.”

“Blue~, look here!”

Lance pauses to turn around.

“Yeah, Sam?”

Sam presses a button on his eye-piece, snapping a perfect photo of Lance.

“Did ya' get that, mission control?”

“Noooo!” Lance screeches, as the man raises a thumbs-up and high-fives his teammates.

“Delete that!” he yelps.

“Nope.”

“You owe me!”

“Like what?”

His jaw drops as he stands in front of the attack squad member.

“Usually you're so stingy,” Lance muses. “Who offered what?” he demands.

“No one, that's just priceless. Not to mention almost everyone who knows you probably has a copy now.”

“Asshole!”

“There there,” another man says, clasping Lance on the shoulder, “you're annoying as hell, Blue, but you sure make us laugh, and we're grateful for that – Honest.”

Lance narrows his eyes and spins around, moody but red-faced.

“...You've gotten better at sucking up to people, Lennard,” he growls, reaching out to start sliding different keycards through the lock.

The door finally beeps and slides open, and Sasha leaps out to greet him.

“You're back!”she exclaims, laughing, but shies away at the sight of the attack squad. Another woman in their ranks smiles and kneels down to offer Sasha a hand. She flashes another delicate smile at the other kids.

 _Thank god Michelle's so sweet_ , Lance thinks. He's pretty good with kids, but Michelle's on a whole other level. She's a must for any search and rescue mission, or raids like these, where there are prisoners that need to be calmed and evacuated. While Michelle walks into the thick of it and starts bantering with the kids unabashedly, Benedetto takes a look at the bloodstains on Lance and gives an understanding nod.

“Well, I'm out then,” he says to a couple members, who pat him on the back or on the head (to his annoyance) and say their goodbyes.

“Michelle, take care of the kids, 'kay?”

“Will do!”

He smiles at them and starts walking out of the hole blown through the wall, only to screech to a halt in surprise as Benedetto calls after him, along with Sasha.

“Wait, I haven't gotten your name yet, big brother!”

“Lailah! Tell me! Who are you, really?! I promise I'll do my best in Garrison and someday work right by your side!”

Lance sighs, but he can help but laugh as he looks back at them over his shoulder, playing it up for all it's worth. Sunlight and cool wind streams in, illuminating him with almost a halo of golden light as his skirt flares up behind him in a billowing curtain, revealing the lush greenery outside with every flutter.

“The most skilled eraser of Garrison, erasing targets one-by-one to keep the world on its correct path, and one of the infamous Colors – codename Blue! Don't forget it!”

And just like that, he vanishes.

“Damn, you made things really awkward for him,” Lennard says, trying not to laugh so hard that it looks like he's about to keel over at any moment. “He even did that quick-step thingie to get the hell out.”

Bendetto startles as he suddenly processes what he's hearing.

“Wait. ' _He_ '?” He looks down at Sasha. “'Big _brother_ '?”

The girl gives Benedetto such a pitying look for a young girl.

“Yeah, he's not a big sister. He's a big brother. He said he was only dressing like that to get near Meldav. He probably didn't want to mention that to you, since it probably would've made you feel bad.”

Benedetto slides to the ground, holding his face.

“Hey man, you alright?” Lennard asks. He's _so_ telling mission control about this later. He can only imagine the fuss it'll kick up – Blue accidentally seduced a member of the mafia to work for Garrison, only for the poor sap to realize he was duped.

“Wh-who cares?!” Bendetto finally yells, jumping to his feet, fists clenched tightly in determination. “H-he's still very beautiful and kind, right?” he says, looking at Lennard, who suddenly realizes why Blue felt so awkward.

“Well, dunno about 'beautiful', but... He's a good kid.”

“Then it's settled!”

Benedetto extends a hand to Sasha, who looks up in surprise.

“What?”

“I saw the look in your eyes – You admire Lai- I mean, Blue too, right? Let's both work hard to reach his level eventually!”

Sasha's expression completely brightens, and the two shake hands, looking awfully silly, but full of pride.

“Definitely!”

“...Things are hard for you, aren't they, Blue?” Lennard mutters.

 

Lance doesn't even flinch as Iverson swings a fist directly into his face. His head snaps to the side, and a second later he's facing forward again, expression flat and stony. His superior is livid, and he doesn't even know why.

“You kept one of the members alive. Why?!”

“Sir, he offered to help. Sir.”

“Your orders were to kill them all.”

“Sir, I thought they were to secure the estate, sir.”

The time you wasted on that fool, you could've used searching for information on Shirogane, codename Black, and on the Holts!”

Lance's eyes widen, and he stares back, mouth open.

“Wh-what? Sir? I wasn't told anything about that, sir.”

Iverson's glare turns downright nasty, and he leans in, grinding his knuckles into the bruise on Lance's face, who obstinately keeps up a stoic facade.

“Weren't you told that in your mission briefing?”

“Believe me, sir. I would've remembered something that important.”

Iverson backs off and lets Lance retreat.

“You're dismissed. And hurry up and get out of those clothes. It's disgusting.”

“Yessir.”

Lance isn't sure if he's ever left a report so fast in his entire life.

Iverson waits for Lance to leave completely and for the door to shut, before he takes out his phone and types in a number. It barely rings before someone picks up.

 

“We have a mole.”

 

Lance whines in pain, wincing as the inside of his cheek scrapes on his teeth. Nothing's been knocked loose, but a cut up mouth hurts like hell.

“Soup tonight, then?” he says to himself.

He heads over to the lab again, and resists the urge to bang his head against the wall when he sees the deactivated keypad. They _always_ do this whenever they're ultra busy. He quickly sends a text.

 

[Not gonna bother you guys, but stop shutting down the door. What if something happens?]

 

Lance jumps as he hears shrieking from the other side of the door, and then his phone starts buzzing.

 

[WAS IN THE ZONE. ALMOST FIGURED OUT BUG. NO TEXTING UNTIL WE SAY OKAY – NEXT TIME U DIE!!!!!]

 

Oops. Pidgeon is probably going to kill him anyway.

 

[NOOOOO!!!! I MELTED THROUGH THE LEG WHY MAN WHHHYYYYYYY  >x<]

 

Oops. Now he owes Hunk too.

 

Maybe he'll treat Pidgeon at her favorite coffee shop in San Lona city, and he'll get Hunk the new adjustable Geiger counter the guy's been eyeing. Compared to no rent at the Garrison apartment and not many utility bills from constantly being on missions, his bank account has always looked _very_ healthy, even with the money that gets sent back to his family every month.

He sighs and goes to change and head over to Keith's apartment.

 

Sharp creaking wakes Keith up from his nap, and he marches to the door, glaring at the abandoned Tupperware. He opens the door before Lance can do anything, and is taken aback by the bruise on the other boy's face. Still, he stares back coolly, not saying anything as Lance darts in, cheery as always for all his complaining.

“Man! You see this bruise?! It huuuuurts!” he whines and whines, checking the kitchen.

“You mind if we make stew tonight? My mouth's all cut up.”

“Sure. Go for it.”

Keith's flat answer makes Lance blink a few times, and he gestures to the bandage on Keith's wrist.

“Did something happen while you were going after a bounty? You're hurt.”

Great, now he's starting to feel guilty. He's ignoring the big-ass bruise on Lance's face while the guy is pointing out a tiny cut on his wrist.

“It's nothing. I nicked it on a thorn.”

“From what?”

“A rose bush. The bounty was a plant Skill-user. Definitely easier to deal with than Entamon though.”

Lance frowns.

“Another Skill-user? Sounds like there's been a lot lately. You sure nothing else happened?”

Keith's not acting like his usual self, and whenever a person does that, it's always worrying to Lance.

“Did anyone die?”

Keith looks at Lance in utter confusion.

“No?”

“Oh, that's a relief,” Lance says, chuckling as he takes some ground beef out of the fridge. “You were acting weird, so I figured that might be why.”

“Seriously?! You asshole! You have no idea why I might be pissed?!” Keith snaps, and he gets a little bit of pleasure from seeing Lance hit his head on the fridge.

“Wh-what did I even do?!” the boy yells.

“You left rotting food on my doorstep! Twice!”

Lance's jaw drops, before he tumbles down to his knees, groaning. Keith takes a step back. That's _definitely_ new.

“Why is _nothing_ going right today?!” Lance screams.

Keith's glad that none of his neighbors give a shit about loud noises, as he nervously watches Lance splay himself over the floor.

“Um...”

“Don't. Say. Anything. Just let me stay here for a bit.”

“O-okay. Takeout?”

“You see this fucked up face?! You better order at least a portion of soup or some bullshit like that!”

Keith browses through some flyers, and eventually orders a pizza with a side order of clam chowder, checking up on Lance every few minutes or so. Lance just lays on the ground, pouting. It's the most interesting tantrum Keith has ever seen, that's for sure. He shuffles back over to Lance.

“The food's coming.”

“...Thanks,” Lance mumbles, his face still on the ground. “Did you really think I was leaving rotting food on your door on purpose? I've been busy, 'kay? Didn't want you to starve.”

The words make Keith completely incapable of making eye contact with Lance, and he covers his mouth to hide how he's bared his teeth in embarrassment. So this entire time... Lance was just trying to make sure he could have food while he was gone?

_Ohhhh no._

He's been a complete dick.

It takes some time, but Keith swallows his pride in the end.

“Hey, sorry.”

“For being a dick?”

Keith cracks his neck and takes a few deep breathes.

“Y...Yessss...” he creaks out, as if it's physically painful to admit it to Lance. “I've been going after bounties these past two weeks, so the food was always rotting when I came back. I thought it was some kind of sick joke.”

“Well, like you said, I'm an asshole.”

Damn, damn, _dam_ _n_ – Lance is _not_ letting up.

“Who punched you?”

“Not telling you, but it's been a rough two weeks.”

“Oh.”

From the way it looks, the bruise is fresh. Lance must've come over almost right after getting punched.

“Were you mugged on the way here?”

“You seriously think that's possible?”

“You're packing?!”

“Well, duh. Like how you always have knives. Don't think I didn't notice that tiny thing strapped to your thigh last time and right now.”

“...Shit.”

It takes some very awkward coaxing on Keith's part, and Lance realizing that the floor is starting to get a bit uncomfortable before he pulls himself up in a sitting position, no longer so moody. The floors creak and the doorbell rings, and Keith takes the food from the nervous delivery boy. The kid snatches the tip out of Keith's hand and books it out of the apartment complex before Keith can even thank him.

“Well, I guess I owe you,” Keith says reluctantly. “Follow me.”

Lance gets to balance the soup while Keith holds the pizza, and the two of them them crawl onto the roof.

“Lucky, huh? The fourth floor is the highest, so it's super easy to get up here.”

Lance nods and leaps up onto the roof next to Keith.

“Yeah. It is.”

Keith finds himself a place to sit and gestures to his side, and Lance cautiously sits down next to him.

“So?”

“I... I like eating on the roof. Look.”

He points upwards, and Lance's gaze follows it up, where his frown turns into a giddy smile.

“Told ya',” Keith says.

“This is-! This is awesome!!!”

The clear skies this place is known for, as well as the lower light pollution compared to the town center means that the stars and planets are almost always visible and sparkling, filling up the sky.

The boy immediately perks up, and his dark eyes under the moonlight are a beautiful royal blue. There's a scratching sound to the left, and Lance scuttles on all fours towards one end of the roof.

“There's even _kitties_!”

At this point, Keith's not even surprised. He could feel that they were being watched, but he didn't think Lance's night-vision was good enough to see some cats hiding in the shadows. Lance coaxes the cats over with cute noises and some meat from his clam chowder. Soon, the two of them are surrounded by no less than six cats, and they all _love_ Lance, crawling over and purring and rubbing against him.

“What the hell?!”

“This is the best,” Lance says, his voice lilting up and down, and Keith swears it sounds almost like Lance is purring with the cats. “One of Hunk's back-breaking hugs and this would go from worst day ever to _best_ day ever.”

Lance looks genuinely happy, and Keith sighs. So giving up a secret pleasure of his for this was kinda worth it in the end. He touches the phone in his pocket, and already he can feel his face going red. The solution to the problem is simple, but... Well, there's only one contact in his phone for a reason. The fact that it's for a missing person is arguably worse.

“H-Hey?”

“Yeeeesss?” Lance replies, nuzzling a particularly fluffy and large Maine Coon.

“We should... Probably exchange numbers, right? So you won't have to come leave food when I'm gone, and I don't need to guess which days you have free or not.”

The black kitten in Lance's hands mewls in annoyance as he drops it in shock.

“Wha? Um, sure! Sure!”

Keith's glad to see that Lance is as red-faced as him, but the boy's so giddy with happiness that his hands actually shake as he takes out his phone to pull up a new contact screen. The two of them stare at each other, and with all the seriousness in the world, hand each other their phones.

“Oh!”

“What the...”

Their phones are the same type – Lance just has his in the blue-glass color while Keith's is the red-glass model.

“Weird,” Lance says, but doesn't look nearly as surprised as Keith, and just starts filling in his contact info. Keith shakes his head and looks down at the screen himself. The phone is still warm from Lance's body heat as he types in his own number.

A text notifications pops up, from someone called “Pidegeon”.

 

[HOLY FUCK THIS IS AMAZING MAN UR OFF THE HOOK]

 

There's an image attached, but the tiny thumbnail is enough to make Keith curious enough to tap on the notification without any qualms. Lance's texts to this Pidgeon person pop up, and Keith's jaw drops.

 

 

It's Lance in a dress. The background has been replaced with a flat color, but Lance is is unmistakably rocking a french maid outfit, complete with soft makeup and a long brown wig.

Whoever "Pidgeon" is, they're completely right. 

 _This is amazing_.

Keith pitches over and starts howling in laughter.

“Huh? Oh my god! Nooooooooo! Give it back! Give it back!”

The cats scatter as Lance tries to grab at Keith, and only now does he realize that there's still what looks like lipstain on Lance's mouth, and a hint of smudged liner on his eyelids. He can only laugh so much and try to escape at the same time though, giving Lance just enough time to swipe the phone back. Lance frantically types back to Pidge before checking the contact screen, and he makes sure to save the number before screeching at Keith, who's still rolling around on the ground. He grabs Keith by the shoulders and starts shaking the boy, frantically begging him to forget everything.

 

Silas strides into the room, displeased, but tolerant. The two from Galra are right behind him, still smiling.

“How much longer will I have to do this?!” he snaps at them.

“In time.”

“In time.”

“It's been two weeks!”

“Your body hasn't full acclimated to the Quintessence yet.”

“You still need to learn how to use your new powers effectively once you've received your full dose of Quintessence.”

Silas grumbles under his breath, but he relents and walks up to the two pillars in the center of the room. The walls are all completely lit up by a golden glow, as the circular room is stacked from top to bottom with large glass cylinders of glowing gel. Silas extends his pointer finger and touches one of the pillars. In that moment, the room flashes, and a dose of Quintessence flows in him. His body strengthens, and despite the uncomfortable numbness running through his body right now, he knows he's yet again exceeded his original limit just a tinier bit more.

“I understand,” he says, turning around to face the men from Galra.

“Glad to see that.”

“Glad to see that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys can see why I said I need to start focusing on the others, right? Unfortunately, I guess you could say we're in a Lance-centric arc right now, and he's also got the most secrets out of everyone in this AU so far, compared to the other characters.
> 
> On another note, I drew some what I imagine Lance's choker and pendant to be like, as well as the maid outfit. If you guys want, I'll try to incorporate a pic of the dress into this chapter of the fic later, as well as in a previous chapter for the choker.  
> I've seen other fics do it, so just say if you're cool with that in the comments.
> 
> As for the meaning behind this chapter's title... Well, I'll let you guys figure it out~!


	6. Aren't You Glad We're Friends?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All in all, things could've been worse. Sure, he met a really creepy person and nearly got hit by a car, but things could always be worse.
> 
> Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a Keith-centric chapter!
> 
> Sorry for taking so long to get this chapter out -- school calls, and I honestly didn't know what to write for a bit.  
> You guys also all leave such kind comments! They seriously help fuel my desire to write, for real!

The stench in the small apartment is damp and subdued, but impossible to escape from. Iverson wrinkles his nose and pulls his scarf up and over the lower half of his face. To his right, another man dressed in a biohazard suit surveys the scene. He observes the carnage with an almost serene expression.

Outside, snow piles up in banks and drifts.

If there's anything to be grateful about this cold for, it's that the smell could be much, much worse. The man has been pinned to the ground, spread-eagle, and each pin is comically large, with heads the size of a fist. His stomach has also been sliced open, the flaps of skin neatly peeled back and also pinned to the floor. It reminds the man in the suit of the frogs and rats he dissected in high school. Parts of the limbs and the organs have been nibbled at, but the entrails are crusted over with ice, including the waste inside.

“No wonder Blue didn't get the info. I can't find the 'note' anywhere,” he says, peeling off his bloodied rubber gloves with a loud _snap!_ _,_ as Iverson peers closer at the corpse.

“Flashy. If it's a threat towards us, we'd better prepare.”

“Don't be so hasty,” the examiner interjects, “I'd prefer we try to find out why they took the 'note'. Whoever did this obviously knew that part of Blue's mission involved trying to find out what the Galra currently know about Takashi Shirogane. When we looked through the data seized afterwards, parts of it had been wiped clean. The perpetrator is ahead of us.”

Iverson grunts and begins to leave the room.

“Nothing left for us here then,” he mutters.

The examiner looks at the body one last time. His bottom lip trembles, but a sound never escapes. As the two leave the room, he gently closes the door behind them, just as how he found it.

Inside, the corpse rests.

 

At this part of the market, scooters zip around people, competing sellers all holler at the top of their lungs, and a man passes by with bundles of small, round cages woven from strips of bamboo that each contain a chirping cricket. Sweat drips off Keith's brow as he rests under an awning, and the humidity only adds a sticky thickness to the heat. By the time his drink runs up the straw, it's somehow warm already. He sighs and sips at it again. It's still better than the weather. Also, despite the intimidating and bright green jelly worms in it, it's delicious. Pale-colored from coconut milk, and not overly sweet. He also has no idea what it is, since he just ordered randomly, as best as he could with a language barrier.The lady crackling from from the shopkeeper's radio croons and wails for... someone or something. Shiro was the expert on languages and Keith himself knows a few, but he's never bothered learning the specific dialects for this place.

Maybe Lance would know what this drink is.

There's all sorts of people clustered under the awning of this tiny cafe, also trying to escape the heat just like him. Keith shoves his hand inside his pocket and pulls out his phone, bringing up his texts with Lance. So far, they've both managed to restrain themselves from being total asses, except for a few “accidental” texts at three in the morning that they've each blamed on differing time zones.

 

[Yo if you're not dead ill probably be back tomorrow]

 

There hasn't been a reply back from Lance, so he's probably still at work or something. Whatever he does, the hours are pretty rough. He sends another text.

 

[Also what's this:]

 

He takes a picture of the drink, hoping that he doesn't look like some clueless tourist – oh what is he even saying? He's totally a clueless tourist, just taking a break from trying to catch a crime lord. He's already gotten some smaller bounties for pickpockets he's busted while here, but that's been nothing but bait.

The picture takes some time to send, but it eventually goes through. Keith chews on his straw for a bit. According to the info he's got, the target's a normal human, but he single-handedly runs the crime in this city. In this day and age, it's pretty rare to see a micromanager in crime.

The people here have a lot of guts, that's for sure. The normal tourists here are just stupid.

He finishes the last of the drink and leaves the glass on an empty surface near the shop, before pulling his hat back on and slipping on his sunglasses. Time to rile up the wrath of a crime lord some more.

 

The compound is intensely fortified. It's another Galra mafia estate, but compared to the previous one Lance took down, this one is much smaller, but much more heavily guarded. When something like this is boldly placed so close to one of the city's main roads, and people pass by it everyday, infiltration gets a lot harder. In a way, the public view is like another guard for the estate. After all, anything that happens to the mafia in this estate also happens to the civilians. This is the third time Lance has passed the estate from different angles, each time in a different disguise, hours apart.

It's a lovely mansion, and he's sure that the Galra operative inside must be living happily with his wife. At exactly one corner of the walls, he finds a blind spot. One of the trees planted along the city streets has a branch that obscures _just_ the edge of a camera's field of vision, that the next closest one doesn't cover. To scale that wall won't be too much trouble, so all that he needs to do is wait for night to fall, for the people to sleep, and for him to sneak in. When he gets back to his hideout in the nearby countryside woods, he finally notices Keith's text, along with the picture of the drink with green jelly worms.

 

[looks like cendol!]

[...]

[lucky, I wanna try some too...]

 

Maybe he can ask later where Keith's having it. For now, he needs to prep. A quick meal later of rations and he starts changing. First is the reinforced combat suit, light on armor, but loaded with all sorts of tech and fancy extras. The metal plates and the rubber on the soles always tickle his feet at first, and he wiggles his toes around, trying to shake out the feeling. After that are the pants, made out of a special material designed to resist cutting and tearing while remaining flexible, followed by an armored shirt that flows like thick silk, despite hanging heavily off of Lance's shoulders. The piece that tops it all off is the dark blue, bulletproof coat. He sighs and props up the collar as usual.

 

_“..._ _I mean, it looks super cool, but I'm starting to get flashbacks about Rowan's clothes,” Lance says, grimacing._

_“Please man, just do it. I'd feel a ton better,” Hunk insists._

_It's times like this that Lance sometimes wishes he weren't Hunk's friend. The unbeatable, puppy-eyed stare that's already the stuff of legends in the other labs and the financial department is even more effective on him because they're so close._

_He flips up the collar, and Hunk's entire face lights up like the sun._

_“Ughhhh.... fine. Happy?”_

_“Yes, yes, yes! C'mon, I think it's worth looking a bit like Rowan if you're safer that way!”_

_“Man, I know you designed this whole outfit, but if something's about to cut through this awesome coat, it's probably gonna cut through this awesome suit too.”_

_“Over my dead body,” Hunk declares, puffing out his chest for extra effect._

_“Huh?”_

_“Do you have any idea how long I begged the armory to be in charge of your battle outfit? The ones I saw on some of the other erasers had so many design flaws – including your old one! For example, sacrificing flexibility for thermal resistance, when you could totally have both if you were to incorporate-!”_

_“Alright, alright! I got it! I got it!” Lance wails, stopping Hunk before the guy can go into a whole rant. Hunk pouts and takes a deep breath._

_“You're my best friend in this place, 'kay? If those clothes can keep you safer by even one percent, then it's the best I could ever hope for.”_

_Lance's eyes widen, and he begins rolling the pendant of his choker between his fingers._

_“You won't regret it?” he asks softly.“Even if these clothes help me kill someone?”_

_He expects Hunk to maybe falter a bit, or look sad, but Hunk's firm gaze stuns Lance._

_“Never.”_

_The lab door buzzes, and Pidge runs in._

_“Hey, I heard Lance's new clothes were in- ohhh! That looks awesome!”_

_“Pidgeon?!”_

_Pidge snickers and hurries by Hunk's side, stepping over all sorts of machinery and wiring._

_“You seriously think I'd let Hunk have all the fun? Those clothes are even anti-RFID, though I kinda put that in just for kicks. Hunk said that your old mentor's given you like an allergy to bright colors, so I helped pick the blues and blacks!”_

_“Hahah... You do realize you're helping me murder people, right?”_

_“I'm not.”_

_“Huh?”_

_“I'm just keeping a friend safe,” she says resolutely._

_Tears sting Lance's eyes, and he tries to blink them away as hard as he can. It's no use, and Pidge and Hunk start laughing at him._

_“C'mon Lance,” Pidge chuckles, “stop that!”_

_“Oh no, oh man! Did I say something?!” Hunk panics._

_“No, no! I just-!”_

_Lance bursts out into laughter, clutching his pendant and the collar of his coat as tightly as he can._

 

He can't die. He can't ever die.

The last part of this whole outfit are the boots and gloves, and he makes sure the clasps are snug and tight. With that, he disappears into the night.

 

Things happen a lot faster than Keith expects. A few more pickpockets later, and the ringleader of them starts going after him. They try to jump him, but their killing intent is so high that Keith bets he could probably feel it from a mile away.

Half an hour later and he's turned in the ringleader too. Which means that the star of the show should be showing his face by now. This time, when he feels people following him, they're far better about masking their killing intent.

Either way, they think he doesn't notice them. What they don't know is that Keith instincts are the best of the best – good enough to be mistaken for a Skill sometimes. He pretends to notice them, then lets himself get backed into a corner, in the shade of a dingy alleyway. The men appear with their knives and guns, and with one pointed at his head, they slowly lead him to the base of his target.

It's a normal office building, tiny, and with peeling paint. Hardly what you'd expect of a man who's got the entire city's crime under his thumb. Though the reason his bounty is so big is what he's done for small, unorganized crime not yet under Galra control all over the world. A fixer-upper of minor organizations. He appears, turns the crime there into a force that the local police can't handle, then flees, leaving behind a city that has now become a den of hell.

Keith's almost curious to know what kind of person does something like that. He could become a king if he decided to just stay in one place, but instead he moves about, fighting for every bit of power and money that he can get, before dropping it all for the next place – with some of the cash, of course.

It's broad daylight, but the locals don't give a shit as they see a group of armed men forcing some brat to go inside a crime lord’s office. As they head upstairs, Keith peeks into some of the open doors and windows they pass, listening in on the voices floating out. Harassment, threats, flattery, and then just some normal sounding office conversation, as people ask for this week's ledger on Numbvil so that they can balance the books. 

The whole group plods up the steps with Keith in the middle, but the narrow walkway forces them to stand uncomfortably close together.

“So what are you guys?” Keith asks, trying to keep his voice light, obnoxious, and way too careless for a kid with a gun to his head. At least having to deal with Lance constantly has _some_ advantages.

“Lemme guess, the boss's personal bodyguards?”

“So what if we are?” one of the men snaps, jabbing the muzzle of his gun into Keith's back. Keith pitches forward and bumps into the guard ahead of him, scowling as he straightens up.

“Fine fine,” he pretends to complain. “I was just asking.”

They pass two flights of stairs before heading to a room on the end of the third floor. The fourth floor is being left to whoever wants it, Keith guesses. More noises float through the air as their feet plod on the terrible office-carpet, thin and full of lint and stains. They're all sweating in this small place by now, and burst into the boss's office, damp and dripping. Sunlight floods in, blinding Keith temporarily, and as his eyes adjust, they slowly reveal a generic office. At the desk in front of the window, under a weak ceiling fan, sits the man who travels around the world, organizing crime for shits and giggles.

He looks like a middle-aged office worker, complete with signs of premature balding. Looks not above or below average; just average.

Keith blinks a few times, wondering if his eyes are tricking him, but then he realizes it. This guy feels like trickery and deceit and manipulation and concealment – all rolled up into a single human being. No single person should be made up of so many lies, and they give off the feeling of wavering existence, as any human like that should.

Maybe that's why the man's looks so normal. Maybe on top of all of that deceit, he also used to be a looker too. Something truly unnatural and ethereal, and so he fixed it. Nothing a flattened nose or shaved down face bones couldn't change.

“That's interesting. Usually people just laugh or start questioning me,” the man says, a light-hearted tinge to his voice. Somehow it still cuts through the bustle surrounding them.

“Nah, I believe you're who I think you are.”

Keep playing the role of the idiot. That's how he's gonna get the most out of this situation. The killing intent has more or less died out. The guy must've sent his guards some discreet signal.

“Figures. Your instincts... they're top-notch, aren't they? How else could you bring down my little pickpocket ring just like that?”

“It's not their fault. They were pretty good, but I was just better. Still don't get why I'm being taken to the boss over a pickpocket ring though.”

“Because it was profitable.”

“Huh?”

“I ask the kids to try to target things that look like they have sentimental value. Afterwards, we sell them back at an elevated price. Of course, the tourists will always shell out money for the dingy lockets from dead mothers, or a hundred thousand instead of tens of thousands for the engagement rings they misplaced while meeting prostitutes.”

For some reason, Lance's choker flashes through Keith's mind, how Lance's slim fingers always touch the pendant on it when he's uneasy. He better warn the other boy to be careful when visiting this area.

“Mm, not sure how I feel about that.”

“Listen, I'll be frank here. Work for me. As a guard, you're no doubt top notch.”

Keith shakes his head. Maybe it's time to drop the act.

“I can't.”

“Why are you a Sweeper anyway? For the adventure? For justice?”

“To find someone.”

“I can help you.”

“It won't work.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm sure that person will only let me, and me only, find them.”

“So?”

Keith almost takes a step back, his eyebrows scrunched and jaw parted. The man keeps talking.

“Work for me, and I can give you the extra resources you need to find this person. Even I understand the value of privacy. Ask the men around you.”

They murmur in agreement, and the man smiles.

“You'll still be searching for this person on your own, but with my backing. In exchange, I have your employment. A good deal, no?”

“...I need to think.”

“I'll be making a deal tonight at eleven at the city docks. I'll have someone lead you to the meeting point. With your instincts, I feel everything will go rather smoothly.”

Keith laughs.

“They're just instincts – Nothing like a skill.”

“You closed your eyes when you said that, so that I wouldn't be able to tell if you were lying or not. Or was that your way of bluffing? Clever boy.”

This time, Keith makes it a point to straighten his back and stare forward, without fear.

“So this is how it ends? With a job offer?”

“In fact, yes. We'll be waiting tonight.”

Keith says nothing, and leaves the building immediately, nearly tripping over the threshold on his way out out. He won't admit it, but for a moment, he was tempted. Shiro would kill him if he knew he'd gotten involved in crime just to look for him though.

That evening, he checks that his dagger and knives are properly secured and hidden over his body. At his waist, he buckles on his sword. Now, there's one more thing to do. He checks the transmitter he placed on the guard he bumped into.

“You're kidding me,” Keith mutters to himself.

They're at the docks, just like the man said they would. He doesn't know what makes this stranger trust him so much, but if he can swoop in and catch two baddies at this exchange, more power to him. It doesn't take long for Keith the reach to reach the docks, and when he gets to the chain link gate, his gaze sweeps to the right, directly at the man hidden in the shadows. His night vision is nothing compared to Lance's, but he knows someone's there.

“Did he send you?”

The figure jumps a bit, and the movement makes some of the person's clothes catch the moonlight. His eyes adjust some more, until he can clearly see the man's silhouette.

“Damn, the boss wasn't lying, huh? Follow me.”

Keith always stays a yard behind, but as he reaches out his awareness, he realizes that they're not being followed.

“So, the boss's offer made you reconsider?”

“Yeah,” Keith answers, lying through his teeth. “If he really can help me out then...”

“You'll probably be able to see your friend soon, right?”

“Yes.” His voice softens. He wants to see Shiro again. Shiro who's kind, understanding, and strong. Shiro who'd never let anything defeat him.

The dock in question is stacked with shipping containers, with a space carved out and brightly lit in the center. On the far left is a man in dark suit pacing outside his car with his bodyguards. On the far right is the mysterious man who called out Keith in the first place tonight. He sees Keith being settled into place in the shadows and smiles, despite the tension being so palapable.

“Marcazzio, everyone's here! It's time to talk!”

The other man, Marcazzio, is large and imposing, but under the lights he seems sweaty and shriveled, Keith thinks. The guy stinks of fear and trepidation.

“I told you! If you were gonna sell drugs, that we were gonna avoid the harder stuff and that I'd get a cut of the profits! What did you do though? You still sold that shit anyway – behind my back no less! You better have a couple briefcases to smooth this over, Marcazzio, 'cause the other guys are already fertilizer by now!”

His tone is vastly different from the kindly way he spoke to Keith this afternoon, and his blood lust sweeps up into a wave that almost makes Keith pitch forward and vomit. Of course he doesn't need to hide such strong killing intent in a situation like this. It's so strong that even the average person would start feeling shivers run up and down his spine, but to Keith it's like getting shot in the heart with a dose of adrenaline while every signal in his body screams at him to flee and never look back.

“Kid, you okay?” the bodyguard who led him here asks. He's actually about to place a hand on Keith's back, but stops when the boy flinches.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” he mutters, straightening up again, bullets of cold sweat streaming down his face. “Been awhile since I last felt this way.”

“Amazing, isn't he?”

“...He's going to abandon you, you know?”

The moment Keith says that, the guard sighs and backs away. So the Boss was right.

“What do you know?”

“Haven't you seen the bounties on him? Read the descriptions of his crimes?”

“We're different.”

“How do you know that?”

“...We just do.”

By now, Marcazzio looks like he's shitting his pants. Also, maybe it's because the guy's face is twisted with fear, but Keith swears that he looks familiar. It takes a minute, but Keith quickly covers his mouth to smother his surprised expression.

Luke Marcazzio.

The guy's no normal mook: Marcazzio runs a drug manufacturing business that's known to make some of the best stuff in the world – at a premium. One of the few guys making major bank without being controlled by the Galra.

The bounty on him is just as ludicrous.

“C'mon!” Luke yells. “We all know you would've scalped me out of any profit!”

“Better than nothing, no?”

“You think we make this stuff for free?!”

“Marcazzio, don't be a dumbass. I've had people analyze your stuff and even calculate how much you spend – including your fucking slave labor. You can still make a pretty hefty profit with that fifteen-percent cut I was asking for. Also, since when did you get the guts to go behind my back?”

“Uh...”

Luke's dumbstruck, and the man goes in for the kill.

“Lemme guess, one of your idiot underlings convinced you to spit in my face like this. Well, a leader always has to take responsibility for those beneath him, and let's consider any hope of a partnership over.”

The bodyguard next to Keith suddenly drops and sprints out.

“What the-?!” Keith shouts.

A few of the men provide cover fire as the man and his other guards run off the dock. Their shots aren't lethal, but Luke and his guards are forced to take shelter behind the car. Keith clicks his tongue and tries to run out as well, but the man runs past and delicately pushes Keith to the ground.

“Consider this a present,” he murmurs with a fond grin.

“Bastard!” Keith spits back. He stumbles back to his feet again, but they're all screeching out of the dock, leaving behind only the smell of burning rubber. His jaw drops as shipping containers collapse in front of the only way out, the sound echoing so loudly that he covers his ears.

“Run the brat over!”

It's a small, blurred voice in the back, but he still spins around to see.

Luke is in the car, driving it straight at Keith, but Keith's hands are moving before he even sees the tires squealing at him. The knives he throws all pierce into a single front tire, and the rubber bursts, making the car suddenly rip up sparks on the concrete and spin out of control. It veers and crashes into a container, but Luke and a guard crawl out, miraculously unhurt. They fire at Keith, bullets whizzing by the boy near his head and limbs.

Pursing his lips, his inhales and exhales deeply, closing his eyes.

He _knows_ where they'll aim – he can _feel_ it.

Keith runs in and lowers his head about half a foot to dodge a shot, leaping over another one at his ankles. Another one nearly cracks a rib, but he shifts to the side. Some more aim for his skull. He hears them fly by, their heat burning bits of his hair as he tilts his head. The next moment his hands drop down and he unsheathes his sword. In a single movement the weapon is raised and poised at his side, ready for action.

Five yards, three yards, two yards – Keith opens his eyes right as he slams the pommel of his sword into the guard's forehead. A second later and Luke is dispatched next with a hilt-tap to the solar plexus. The two men slump to the ground, but there's a missing man. Keith binds them both with tape, then bends over to peek into the car.

There's a man, bleeding and slumped over the dash. For a moment, Keith's afraid that his bounty's about to be cut in half, but the man groans in pain, and Keith sighs. He reaches in, feeling for the key. It takes a moment with all the broken glass and twisted metal, but his fingetips eventually reach the plastic part of the key, and he twists it, killing the engine.

Maybe all his jobs have been cursed since meeting Lance, because it takes twenty minutes for the police to arrive after his call, and two hours before they can clear all the shipping containers out of the way. His statement to the police stretches as the investigators try to pry every detail out of his tired body, and even collecting his bounty turns into a mess when the tellers and nearby Sweepers all crowd around at the news that some kid's brought in _the_ Luke Marcazzio. Keith snaps and snarls at them all that it's just dumb luck, trying to drive them all away. He tries to nap as much as he can, before his flight, but it feels like he's barely closed his eyes when the alarm wakes him up, shrieking non-stop. An inhuman noise gurgles from his mouth, and Keith rubs at his crusty eyes, swearing non-stop under his breath. The numbers on the clock blur in front of him before they finally clear.

His flight's in half an hour.

The inhuman noise turns into an utter screech as starts he's shoving things into his suitcase and washing up as fast as humanly possible. As the (expensive) taxi hurls down the streets, he gets that sinking feeling in his stomach.

He's going to miss the flight. 

One long-ass flight next to a screaming baby five hours later after his original scheduled flight, and he's finally back home. He dumps his suitcase to the side and drops onto the couch, not bothering to turn on the lights. Grimacing, he starts absentmindedly going through his phone, browsing through nonsense and filth.

He has a new text from Lance. Sighing with a weak smile, he types back a response.

 

[kk lets get some its really good]

 

Keith pauses.

 

[@ a place wher we've both never been to]

 

Satisfied, he tosses his phone to the side, and decides that even though his back will probably be killing him tomorrow, he's just going to sleep on the couch. He hasn't showered for almost a day, and he probably smells terrible (judging by the glaring passengers on the plane), but who cares?

He can finally _sleep_.

His eyes close, his entire body goes limp –

An annoying jingle starts blasting from his phone. Keith shoots straight up, dazed and stunned, and he paws at his phone. Caller ID tells no lies and he screeches into the couch cushions before answering.

“Hey dipshit, why the _fuck_ are you calling right now?! I haven't slept for like almost eighteen hours I'm pretty sure so this better be the biggest goddamn emergency of your life, okay?!”

“Um... Are you Keith?”

An unfamiliar voice.

“H-huh?”

“Uh, hey, s-sorry for calling so late, but I'm Hunk-”

“And I'm Pidge!”

Keith's head is reeling, and he struggles to find the right words.

“What... _What the_ _actual_ _fuck_? Why do you guys have my number? W-wait, god, I haven't slept in forever. Did something happen to Lance? Did the fucker get himself kidnapped by you fuckers-”

“NO!” the stranger blurts out. “Please, you gotta help Lance for us!” he pleads, his voice cracking.

That manages to completely snap Keith awake, his stomach twisting and condensing into a tight ball in his guts. The younger sounding voice that belongs to the person called Pidge takes over, their speech smooth but firm.

“Listen, Lance has been talking about you, and we think we can trust you, 'cause right now he's in a rough place. Hunk and I are stuck where we are, but the problem is that Lance is a bit wrecked right now. Actually, scratch that. He's _wrecked_. Not hurt, thank god – just drugged, unstable, and really, _really_ sick. Hunk and I think he's probably coherent enough to make it to your place, since lately he won't shut up about cooking with you, but please: for just a few days, until he recovers, can you take care of him for us? I really wish me and Hunk could, but... We don't have the time or freedom to watch him for so long. This probably sounds real bad coming from complete strangers that are supposed to be his friends and – ah, fuck it all... I'm sorry. Please. Help him.”

Keith sighs and rubs his eyes.

“I guess I'm not sleeping today either. He's my friend too, so yeah, send him over. I won't ask about the details, since I don't wanna pry. Lance somehow never stops being a pain in the ass, huh?” he says, trying to inject some humor into the conversation, for both of their sakes.

Pidge laughs, but he can hear the relief in her voice seeping out.

“Yeah, totally! He should be there soon. Me and Hunk owe you big time.”

“No problem. Bye.”

“Bye. Thanks again.”  
Keith groans in the dark and lets his arms fall to the side. Hell, he hasn't even unpacked yet and now he's got a sick person to take care of on top of it all.

 

Fuck today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens...


	7. Best Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lance realizes he has the best friends ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long guys! Here's an extra-long chapter to make up for it!!!  
> Ahhhhh your guys' comments are all so nice!!!

Lance checks his gloves out of boredom while waiting in the blind spot. He pulls them taut over his fingers and palms, despite how easily the material flows over his hands. Above, the cameras pan from side to side in a slow, mechanical sweep.

It'll be all right, as long as those cameras keep doing what they've always been doing.

Maybe it's the faint whir of the cameras, or just his intuition, but Lance suddenly glances up. The cameras are caught in an uneven field of view, and he dashes and leaps straight at the wall. Before he can slam into it, he jabs his hands forward, the fingers bent like claws. Titanium-alloy tabs sewn into the fingertips of his gloves gouge into the reinforced concrete, and with his new handholds he pushes down sharply. The extra boost helps him clear the last meter with a foot to spare.

Drifting to the ground with his coat billowing behind him, he hits the ground with a muffled thud. The scent of star jasmine, roses, and pine trees all mingle in this gap of soil between the wall and the garden, but hidden in this smell is also the acidic bite of iron and rust. Frowning, Lance sits down onto the dirt, smoothing out the deep imprints from his boots in the process. He paws at the soft soil, but it feels like he's barely started before there's something sparkling underneath.

Sapphires and opals on a band of white gold. There's soil stuck in the nooks and crannies between the stones, and the entire thing is dirty with more stuff stuck to the rotting human fat on the inside. Despite it's griminess though, the ring's clearly expensive.

His lips twist into a sharp frown, and holds the ring up to the moonlight that filters through the trees.

“What a crappy place to end up,” Lance whispers to it. “You fucked a random John and got all spoiled and sweet-talked, but then his wife swoops in and uses you as fertilizer for her favorite flowers. How shitty can one person's luck be?”

His own words put him at pause, and he looks to the side, suddenly thoughtful.

“Nevermind, maybe you aren't so unlucky!” he exclaims. His frown transforms into a charming smile at the dirt, and he jumps to his feet, patting off his pants and pocketing the ring at the same time.

“Time to get to work.”

 

Getting in was far easier than he expected. The locks are easily picked, and the cameras inside are nowhere nearly as careful as the ones outside. It's only when he's stopped in the main hall that Lance figures it's because of what the guards are armed with. Machine-gun shots spray through the hallway, chipping into the pillar he's hiding behind while pulverizing everything else to bits. Hunk would probably be crying if he could see the Roman-era mosaic nearby being shot into itty-bitty pieces of cracked tile. Lance sighs and darts around the pillar to fire a few shots. Screams rip through the air as the gun fire abruptly mutes, but the air is also filled with the yells of survivors.

“They got Will! No, you bastard!”

“You'll pay for that!”

“Go ta' hell!”

“We'll show this punk why we're the Boss's handpicked guards!”

The cheesy threats don't seem to ever stop. Lance sighs again and rolls his eyes. These guys can't even die normally. He flash-steps across and behind the pillar on the opposite side of the hall, shots ringing the entire time. The bullets seem to defy physics as they avoid all the machine gun bullets, and the guards go down like sacks of lead, spewing threats all the way down. Lance scratches the side of his head with his gun and shrugs, his shoulders and arms slouching heavily.

“Jeez, I already know I'm going to hell. Tell me something I _don't_ know, will ya' guys?”

He skips over the corpses and down the hall, before finally hitting the bedrooms. From there, his leisurely pace vanishes, replaced with a high-strung pursuit, and his boots actually tear up small fluffs of carpet as he sprints. The mansion is like a web of halls and rooms, but he checks them all at a breakneck pace without ever slowing down. Muscles under his clothes strain as he keeps up his top speed, but his breath doesn't even quicken as he slams open the door to every room, sweeping every square millimeter with his eyes in barely a second.

The web takes longer than expected, but that means that the one in front of him is the last room left, and Lance hops about in anticipation in front of it. He's been doing nothing but scouting and hiding away in that decrepit shack in the woods, eating rations out of cans for the past week. Maybe he'll treat himself by staying with Hunk and Pidgeon for extra long today – like getting Pidge that coffee she likes, and all three of them can just hang out and relax. He'll drag them all out, or else Hunk is going to start smelling like machine grease and Pidgeon like soldering smoke. After that, maybe later in the week he and Keith can scour the Asian plazas for a place that sells good cendol.

“It's a plan!” he quietly exclaims, encouraging himself.

God, he's tired as hell.

The doors to the master bedroom are huge slabs of ornately carved oak, but the lock is carelessly low-tech. Two shots later and the deadbolt and handle are blown off. He pushes it open, but his final inconvenience is chain lock strung between the two. Grumbling, Lance grabs the chain with a hand and rips it out by the screws.

Why can't this job just be over?

“Open sesame!” he calls, just for the hell of it, as the doors swing wide open.

The space is huge, but Lance immediately zeroes in on the wardrobe and smiles. A sliver of black fabric sticks out from it's closed doors. He strides towards it and flings it open-

“Fuck you!”

The dark innards of the wardrobe are illuminated by a muzzle flash, revealing for a split second the sweaty face of a middle-aged man, strands of hair plastered to his forehead. The shot slams into Lance's solar plexus, flinging him back and crushing the air out of his lungs. He lays on the plush carpet, gasping as black and white stars pulsing in his vision.

“Fucker, you seriously thought you were going to touch _my_ family-”

Bullets arc up from the ground, straight into the man's forehead and killing him instantly. Grunting, Lance rolls onto his stomach with clenched teeth. It's just a bruise, but it still hurts like hell. From his stomach, he crawls onto his knees and up to his feet, acclimating to the pain on the fly and ignoring how the bruise feels like it cuts into him if the flesh so much as shifts. When he finally stumbles over to the man and sees what he's holding, Lance groans in disbelief. Loosely clutched in the man's white-knuckled hands is a double-barreled shotgun, slowly sliding out of his grip and into his lap.

“Christ. Buckshot at point blank range. I totally owe you Hunk,” Lance mutters, lightly brushing his fingers over the coat and his stomach. The target's eyes are still open when Lance grabs the corpse by the collar and tosses it out. It flops onto the carpet, where the blood is greedily sucked up by carpet so luxurious that Lance's boots have sunk two inches deep into it.

“Why didn't you hide?” heasks the corpse, a thread of respect running through his eyes.

Now for the wife. If she doesn't die as well, then she's just going to replace her husband as the head of operations. Lance reaches through the coats and slides his hands down the wood back, until the tips of his gloves catch on a small cavity, rattling a miniscule ring. He might not have a wire hook with him, but a lockpick always works in a jiffy. The slim piece of metal slides through, and with it he yanks up the false back of the wardrobe, pushing aside the coats and revealing a gleaming steel door.

The thing's covered with panels for all sorts of locks underneath, including a pulse detector. Hidden in the corner is a micro-USB port painted to blend in with the metal, probably used for updating the information and security stored in the locks. Normally any other hitman might not have noticed it, but Lance is the Blue of Garrison. He can't afford to be “any other hitman”, unless he wants to end up very dead, very fast. From a coat pocket he takes out a small, PDA-like device and pulls out the cable with the micro-USB end to plug in. Lines of code scroll down the screen as he plops down to enjoy the carpet better, marveling at how fast the thing works. Pidgeon likes to call it a “Pidge-in-a-Box”, even if it'll never, ever match up to the real thing. One by one, the lights on each panel all flash green. After every panel has been cleared, for the next minute he hears nothing but the locks inside the door hiss and unlock, metal bars sliding back with dull clanks.

“Damn, who designed this? Keith?” Lance snickers, yanking out the cable and shoving open the door with his shoulder. He peeks in, and gapes as he sees the near-vertical staircase behind. The soles of his boots seem to click and echo with every step down.

One more person and then he can go back to “normal”.

...He feels so tired.

The door at the end is plain; a flat sheet of metal with a knob. He shoots the lock, but the bullet simply ricochets off, singing the edge of his hair as it burrows into the concrete steps.

“Ahhhh, stupid me. Of course it's reinforced.”

If it's reinforced, then he'll just take the simpler, albeit slower approach. He kneels down and starts picking the lock with two strips of metal, “raking” the pin-tumblers into place. The tension wrench turns, and Lance grins at the pleasant sound the lock makes.

Still, silence seems to be the loudest thing down here.

The door swings open on it's own momentum, adding to the unnerving feeling. Where are the laser-guided machine guns? The trip wires gleaming in the dark? The pipes of motion-activated sleeping gas?

Where are the traps?

A sinking feeling gathers in his chest, and he taps his toes on the ground. His rubber soles still click and reverberate. So it's not just his imagination – the floors and steps purposely amplify the sound of footsteps. Also, it's so dark. The only light that reaches down here is a faint glow, the vestiges of dim light from the bedroom that have somehow seeped down here. With his eyesight, he can still see everything clearly, but what if his opponent can hear where he is at any time?

There's something down here, that's for sure.

Lance thinks for a second, then leaps back, his back slamming into the concrete.

“Fuck-!”

Three knives spring out of the room and he quickly dodges them, swallowing at how the sharp blades embed themselves deeply into the concrete. The tap of shoes on the ground echo out, and he smiles lopsidedly as the wife walks out, trench knife in one hand and brass knuckles on the other.

How could he forget? The wife is former special ops. She assassinated all of her husbands mistresses personally, like some vengeful Hera coming down to smite the infidelities of her Zeus.

If he's alluding assassinations to Greek mythology right now, then he must _really_ need a soft bed and good night's sleep.

“If you're here, I take it that Tobias is dead?” she asks, her voice ringing pure and clear.

“Yeah,” Lance answers honestly. “Nearly got a stomach full of buckshot though. For all his cheating, I guess he really liked you.”

The woman mutters something under her breath in a foreign language, the tone reverent and lilting.

It's a prayer, Lance realizes.

“Thank you,” she tells him once she's done.

“You _do_ know I'm here to kill you, right?”

“Yet you waited for me to finish. Besides, your voice sounds very youthful. I'd hate to discriminate based on age, but child? I doubt you will be able to kill me. Leave this job while you still can. The young should not kill.”

Lance's eyes widen, and he laughs, the sound filling the space like liquid sunshine.The woman is almost stunned by how vibrant and lively the voice can be. Hardly the laugh of a seasoned child assassin.

“Lady, you're so nice! And here I'd thought you'd be a lot scarier!”

While she's still taken aback, he fires at her. She darts out of the way at the last millisecond and runs toward the sound of his voice. Her loose clothes hide it, but her body must be made of pure muscle, from the way she drops down and charges at him from there, keeping that lowered stance as the knife slides up towards his carotid.

It slides uselessly against the collar of his shirt. He stays silent, that smile still on his face

She might be able to hear him, but she's still fighting this blind.

“You can do better than playing dead, child. I _know_ what cutting flesh feels like.”

Lance clicks his tongue and ducks down as she swings her knife around for his face, barely blocking her punch with his gun in time. He's forced to brace it with both hands as the force of the punch travels up and numbs his arms. There's no time to even breathe as the knife comes down once more. This time he kicks off the ground to escape her range, but it's only buying time. She uses the trench knife and knuckles in tandem, swiping and throwing punches at him at perfect intervals. Right as he seems to be getting used to her patterns and range, she'll switch to using only the knuckles on the trench knife and her opposite hand, or to punching and increasing the range of her knife by hooking a finger through the grip to swing at him. He's forced to randomly switch between different fighting styles on the fly, and already more and more cuts are starting to appear on the surface of his coat, including a dangerously deep slice along the neck of his under suit.

Out of nowhere he sees a shin sweeping towards him, and he steps back before he can have his skull caved in. It glides past, creating a burst of wind that snaps his bangs back.

She has greaves on. Fucking solid metal greaves with sharp ridges molded into the surface.

“Child! You're quite skilled!” she yells, and Lance swears to god there's a giddiness bubbling under the surface of her voice.

“It's been far too long since I had such a challenge! The guards try, but honestly for all of their boasting they are quite useless!”

“Nah, you're just strong!” Lance snaps as she begins incorporating kicks into her attacks as well, never letting up. How is she doing this by hearing only? It's amazing. Her crescent kick nearly shatters his shoulder, but she keeps her momentum going with a leap, twisting her body in such a way that she follows it up with a devastating roundhouse into his solar plexus.

Lance cries and drops to the ground. She's descends with the knife and he runs to the side in response. There's only one way to deal with someone like her. He fires a shot right up, the sound ringing painfully in the small space. In that moment, he flash steps away from her to the far corner, the sound of his movement masked by the gunshot. He lowers himself down near the ground, gun ready, but the slight shuffling of his clothes is all that she needs to know where he is.

She leaps at him with the knife.

That habit of leaping towards cornered prey – it's her weakness. Her knife's ready to plunge into his chest, but he fires, the bullet tearing and rupturing her neck. Lance casually avoids the stab, letting the knife glance off the wall.

Amazingly, she's still alive. Her eyes are wide with desperation, and terrible gurgles and creaking babbles spill from her mouth with blood as she tries to crawl towards the room. With hateful eyes, she tosses her knife at him in a last ditch attempt to stop him. It skitters past his feet, and he goes inside, curious,ignoring her weak attempts to grab at his legs.

The moment he passes the threshold, Lance's blood runs cold. He blinks rapidly like a man possessed, and his breathing hitches up a notch until he's almost hyperventilating. Flipping the light switch is suddenly a lot harder when your hands are trembling so hard. Light floods the tiny room, and he winces and covers his eyes, praying that when his vision clears, all he'll see is emptiness.

Instead, the fluorescent lights seem to highlight the crib, and now the white-painted wood almost looks like it's glowing. The cooing baby inside starts to cry and scream.

Like a house of cards folding in on themselves, Lance collapses by sections – first at the ankles, then the knees, his hips, and finally his spine.

His eyes are stinging.

The feeling flips a subconscious switch inside him, and he starts shaking his head, curling up into a ball as he tries to convince himself that he needs to get out. From her spot on the ground, the woman almost manages to smile, the corners of her mouth grotesquely tilting up into a curved, bloody line.

Her daughter won't die. At least not today.

Somehow, she still finds it inside her warped psyche to watch Lance pitifully.

 _Poor child_ , she thinks. She finally lets go and slips into death properly, smacking down face-first into a pool of her own blood.

“No, nonononono,” Lance mutters, “Rowan always said to cry later. Never on a mission. C'mon Lance, get your shit together. Their backup could be coming at any minute. Get up. Get up. Get up!”

He grits in teeth in frustration.

“GET UP!” he screams at himself.

Lance's eyes snap open, and he gets up, swaying on unsteady feet. They didn't tell him that the targets were parents. Of course they wouldn't if they knew it could jeopardize the mission. The slightest hesitation would've killed him back there. He takes a step back from the cooing baby, and instead his feet splash into the mother's blood, which has slowly poured into the room as well.

His mission was to kill the whole family.

More panic ripples through his body, but he clenches his teeth and instead takes a single bullet out of his gun. The casings are specifically made to disintegrate when not in contact with gunpowder, but the bullet he places in the pocket of the baby's pajamas will never break apart, not unless it's shot and fired. They're special bullets made for this gun, and this gun only.

“I'm sorry,” he tells the baby, gripping the rail of the crib so tightly that it begins to crack.

“I promise I won't die, so if you ever use that bullet to find me one day, I'll be right there for you to kill.”

He chuckles weakly and struggles not to cry.

“I know revenge is a shitty replacement for parents, but better than nothing, right?”

Shouts drift down from the bedroom above, and Lance steels himself. He rushes to shut off the lights, already prepping a flash bang and smoke bomb as the yells heighten in intensity.

“Fuck! The bastard got the boss!”

“...I'm going in!”  
“No, don't!”

The idiot comes sprinting down, and in that moment Lance hurls forward the flash bang.

It explodes in the over-eager guard's face, while the others up top scream and stumble back. Before they can recover, Lance holds his breath and also tosses in the smoke bomb, smothering the air with a gray fog so thick it's almost viscous. The men and women choke and struggle to find Lance, but he's long gone.

 

“Blue. What the _hell_ happened today?” Iverson snarls.

Lance stares blankly to the side, keeping a stiff upper lip. The small sign of resistance flares up Iverson's temper, and he marches forward and grabs Lance's neck, squeezing with the grip of a man who's climbed K2 not once, but twice. The boy can't even cry out, and instead chokes silently as Iverson single-handedly lifts him up the ground.

“I will not tolerate insubordination, Blue. Remember your place as a disposable!”

He throws Lance to the ground, where the boy writhes and gasps in pain.

“What do you say, Blue?”

“S-sir...Yessir,” he chokes out hoarsely, looking up with hazy eyes. Lance can already feel the bruises forming around his neck. For a moment, he thought his vertebrae were going to dislocate.

“On your feet!”

For what feels like the millionth time today, he crawls up, but the pose can barely be called standing. His legs are splayed, the knees are bent in, and he has to tilt his head up to properly look at Iverson. The man doesn't even bat an eye at the boy's sorry state.

“The clean up crew told me you were especially sloppy this time! There were still guards alive on site, and why didn't you take care of the child?!”

Lance's jaw drops, and he stares back in horror.

“What can a _baby_ do?!” he snarls back, forgetting the agony ripping through his throat. “I thought I had to kill the couple 'cause if I didn't, the other would just take over! Pretty sure I haven't seen any crime families being run by babies, _s_ _ir_.”

A vein pops in Iverson's forehead, but Lance still manages to flash a venomous grin despite looking half-dead and eerily pale. He can tell it's taking Iverson all he has not to murder him right here and now.

“...That's not even the half of it though,” Iverson says, the quietest Lance has ever heard the man speak. For some reason, that terrifies him way more than the man's violent temper.

“The child needed to die, because then any old freak that came around to be his guardian would become the next boss, with that kid as a figurehead. Also, the clean-up crew found one of your _bullets_ on the child's clothes. Why?”

Lance stays stubbornly silent. Anything he says right now will just dig his own grave.

“Do you know what could have happened if the authorities found a custom, one-of-a-kind bullet in the mob hit of the century? Or worse, if the baby's new guardian got wind of it, and somehow tracked down the Garrison Colors? You could've put the entire operation in jeopardy!”

The boy's lips are still sealed tight, but something heavy begins to settle in his stomach, like a large rock. Why is Iverson saying “what if”? That implies that the bullet and the baby are no longer a threat, as if-

“You better be damn glad that our clean up crew is full of freaks. They took care of the leftover guards and the baby.”

Lance stares up at Iverson, eyes wide in horror, before they narrow into hateful slits. Talking is starting to hurt more and more, like as if he's swallowing needles, but he still manages to spit out a single world.

“Bastard.”

It's the final straw for Iverson.

“Guards!” he hollers, spittle flying and some of it hitting Lance in the face. Lance almost chuckles seeing them emerge from the shadows. It might look impressive to Iverson, but to him it just looks like they lounging around.

“Take Blue to the medical bay!”

They surround him in an instant. Two grasp him under the arms, while the others encircle them – a human wall. Iverson marches in front at a punishing pace, and Lance can barely keep up. It's more like the guards are carrying him rather than escorting him.

One of the guards discreetly shifts positions so that he has an arm firmly wrapped around Lance's waist. The other woman does the same.

“On two,” the guard whispers. “One... Two!”

They both lift Lance off the ground, while making it look like he's still walking. Their strong grip makes the bruise on his solar plexus ache, and the guards see Lance' body tense up.

“Blue, you alright?” the man in front mutters.

Lance simply smiles and let's his head droop for barely half a step's worth of time. The guard doesn't look convinced, but he tries to smile back, for the boy's sake.

“Sorry, but you look like shit!”

The comment is enough to make Lance chuckle, but no sound comes out. Instead, the smile on Lance's face dies in a second and turns into a wince, his throat burning. It's enough to make all the guards want to stop and help, but Iverson is speeding ahead, and none of them dare to say a thing. The guard holding Lance's waist to the left squeezes Lance's arm to get his attention.

“Blue, you've got resistance to the reconditioning drugs, right? They make you sick?”

Lance lets his head droop for a moment again, but it still takes a second for his exhausted mind to catch on. He looks up at the guard with fearful eyes.

“Even adults feel kinda queasy getting a full round of chemical reconditioning for the first time, but for you... It's probably going to be terrible. Hell, all that pain, and I bet that reconditioning won't even work because of your drug resistance. I'll contact your friends as soon as I can.”

The fear hasn't completely dissipated from Lance's eyes, but the guard can tell that the boy's simply resigned himself to whatever's about to come. It takes Lance some effort, but some words manage to crackle out past his lips.

“Th-Thnk... Yuu...”

It's a terrible, scratching voice, but the guard stays calm and squeezes the boy's arm again, this time reassuringly.

“No need to thank me; just prepare yourself, 'kay? And don't talk – It sounds painful.”

Lance nods and lets himself be carried down the halls. They pass by Hunk and Pidgeon's lab, and he all he wants is to scream for them to please, please don't leave him alone as he's being hooked up to IV's and injected with all sorts of drugs.

Instead, he lowers his head and lets them carry him away.

They finally reach the medical bay, and immediately Iverson goes and begins talking to one of the doctors. She looks shocked and tries to argue, but Iverson simply jabs a finger at her badge and says something to make her slump in defeat and nod in agreement. The cute nurse who looked at the cut on his forearm is watching the whole thing in shock, and Lance winks at her and blows a kiss.

It never works when he's healthy, and it definitely doesn't work when he looks like he's been hit by a car or two. The doctor directs them to a bed, while Iverson looks on, crystal clear gloating on his face as she preps the drugs. Iverson watches her like a hawk, making sure she won't tamper with the amounts.

“Sir, may I ask why you are observing my actions?” she asks with a strained tone. She isn't even bothering to hide the anger in her voice.

“For the protection of our Blue.”

“Sir, are you accusing me of sabotage?”

“No. I'm merely what you could call quality control.”

The line of fluid inside syringe rises by another centimeter, and the doctor grinds her teeth.

At the bed, the nurse hands Lance a gown.

“Please change into this.”

Once everyone leaves, he hesitates. His fists scrunch up the ends of the dark blue coat coat, but eventually he begins peeling off his clothes. It's like he's pulling off Hunk and Pidgeon's protection – losing the last bit of their friendship in this place. The medical gown is made of paper, and it feels almost uncomfortably thin compared to his armored clothes. His torso feels especially vulnerable, where the bruises have turned into an ugly blotch of purple and green. Lance tries to say something, but opts to tap the divider instead.

“Oh, you're ready-?!”

Her gasp makes the guards peer in, out of curiosity. One of the guards who helped carry Lance leans in to take a closer look at Lance's neck.

“Damn, no wonder you can't say much. It looks even worse than I thought it'd be.”

He glances at Iverson with an angry, but tired gaze.

“You all should leave,” the doctor announces as she appears, rolling in two IV's and a tray of syringes. She turns to address Lance directly.

“A full round of reconditioning should take three hours. You'll get the drips at the very beginning, but the shots take a full hour to administer at intervals. The final two hours are for your body to absorb the drugs.”

Lance nods and shows her a thumbs up. The doctor frowns, especially when she sees the tell-tale bruise on the boy's neck. Someone should be well-rested, well-fed, preferably uninjured, and of sound mind before undergoing a full round of reconditioning. Lance's current condition doesn't look like it ticks a single one of these boxes. With a heavy heart, she starts checking the veins in his arms for the IV's.

 

“Lance!”

Hunk barrels through the door and makes a beeline for Lance, who's sitting on the mattress, dressed, but hazy-eyed. The larger boy sweeps Lance up into a crushing hug, but all the boy does is smile and tap him on the shoulder.

“Uncle, uncle,” he says hoarsely.

“Hunk, put him down!” Pidge yells, running over seconds later. She grabs Lance's shoulder and squeezes it with a death grip.

“Lance,” she whispers through clenched teeth, “how are ya?”

“Pidgeon, can we go to the lab? I don't think I can pretend much longer,” he whispers back.

Pidge grins and helps Lance up, but he also needs Hunk to stay upright.

“We already have the trashbags out!”

Lance laughs softly as all three of them get the hell out and back into their dingy room of wires and metal.

The two of them have cleared out a corner just for Lance, but in between vomiting and dry-heaving, the drugs start to work in full force. He bursts out into tears, spilling everything to Hunk and Pidge. Hunk goes pale and starts trying to comfort Lance, while Pidge merely sits down by them, taking off her glasses as she silently leans on Lance's shuddering shoulder.

“Fuck, fuck!” Lance snaps, clutching his head. “Everything's spinning and everything in my head hurts but.. It's also like everything's... Dimming.”

Hunk stiffens up, and he clutches at Lance's arm.

“Oh no, it's starting.”

“You got slapped with a full round of chemical reconditioning,” she says dully, not even bothering to look up. “Even for someone like you with drug resistance, there's going to be _something_ happening. Thank god it's not permanent. Did they talk to you while you were soaking up all that shit?”

Lance has an equally jaded reaction.

“Yeah. Shit like what my missions were, and what I'm supposed to do.”

“They're trying to subconsciously plant switches in your head, so if you hear anything related to those missions while you still have those drugs in your system, those switches will flip. From there, kiss some of your conscious thought bye-bye. You'll become their perfect agent. A doormat that only thinks about completing the mission.”

“Fuck me.”

“Wouldn't wanna be you right now.”

For some reason, everything's dimming, but at the same time everything's also going unhinged. He breaks into a full-on bawl, clutching his face as he veers wildly between fear and guilt, past and present mingling into some incomprehensible mess inside his brain.

“They killed a baby, guys, they killed a baby! I killed a baby, but I didn't mean to! If I die it's okay, but why can't they let me die why does killing have to be so hard Rowan please don't hate me but I don't think killing is as fun as you say it is – mama I'll kill papa for you don't worry not _that_ Papa, I mean _papa,_ ah Papa's here though wait why oh I see okay thank you for the knife but Rowan's about to come, this isn't the right order Papa and Rowan are first, then papa dies, but the knife is for everything in-between what's the right order, the right order? Mama is everyone happy are they going to school is there food on the table? Stones on tin, where does that belong? Before or after or left and right 'you're talented, kid' Rowan that hurts that hurts please stop no way am I wearing your shitty clothes, haha did you ever really know what I was Rowan?”

Hunk is shaking Lance, but it's as if the boy's trapped in a trance. Hunk's eyes are wide with fear, and in the end, all he can do is keep his hands on Lance's arm, hoping the pressure will bring his friend back from the nightmare.

“His resistance is probably messing with the drugs' effects,” Hunk says glumly, watching Lance mutter incoherent statements to himself.

“That makes sense,” Pidge replies, pale and wide-eyed. To her credit, she stays calm, but she leans even heavier against Lance's shoulder, trying to mimic Hunk by adding on sensory stimuli.

“They probably use stimulants or hallucinogenics to get people all suggestive, and that's what-”

“Please don't make me kill anymore,” Lance says, still covering his face, but maybe this time it's out of shame.

Hunk and Pidge stare at each other, wide-eyed and in shock.

“I'll hack into the security system to double-check for malfunctions; hurry up and check the bugs to see if the dummy convos are working, just in case!” Pidge whispers. Hunk leaps into action, taking a small device off a desk while plugging in and putting on a pair of earbuds. He quickly checks in with every bug in the room, holding the device over the bugs and waiting to see what he hears. To his relief, everything he hears is the sound of tinkering and machinery and conversations about their research, with Lance butting in every now and then.

Wait.

“Pidge! Lance sounds too healthy!”

“Working on it!”

She scrolls through the audio logs, and to her relief the most recent one hasn't been opened yet. She rushes over to record some of Lance's ramblings, then takes it and alters the audio at a breakneck pace, replacing the splices of Lance's interjections with his incoherent babbling instead. Finally she sets it so that the next recording will only be of her and Hunk. She finishes the last step just in time to see the audio file be abruptly opened and closed. Techobabble is always the surest way to make someone lose interest in less than a second. Then again, having actual babbling as well is just a cherry on top of all of that.

She sighs and makes her way back to the two of them, collapsing onto Lance's shoulder.

“It's done.”

“Amazing as usual, Pidge.”

“Thanks.”

A thought flits through her head, and she rifles through Lance's pockets until she can confiscate his phone.

“Good idea,” Hunk mutters, also leaning against Lance.

“Buddy, snap out of it,” he also mutters, somewhat half-heartedly.

“I don't think he will. Not for awhile at least,” Pidge says.

It's another fifteen minutes before Lance finally calms down. Now, he sits limply in the corner, stirring faintly whenever he can feel Pidge or Hunk leaning against him.

“So, whaddya wanna guess is working this time?”

“The sedatives, all the way,” Hunk says.

“Hm, I'm guessing its some of the sedatives and hallucinogenics mixed together.”

It's grim game, and Pidge readjusts her position against Lance, somewhat encouraged by his reaction.

“Hunk, it takes about three days on average for reconditioning drugs to be purged from the body. For Lance, it'll probably take only two, tops, but the effects will probably still linger around, like the nausea.”

Hunk's silent, but Pidge presses on.

“Hunk, we can't take care of him like this. The moment he leaves this lab, he's probably gonna get watched like a hawk. If we stash him here too long though, then this won't be a safe place in the long run.”

“...We can't just turn him loose though!” Hunk snaps.

At that moment, the phone in Pidge's hand buzzes, and Keith's name flashes on the screen. Before Pidge can even react, Hunk snatches the phone out of her hands and starts calling.

 

Keith rubs his eyes, trying to shake off his exhaustion. Nothing seems to work though; the tiredness has seeped into his bones, weighing them down like lead. Grumbling, he unlocks one of the wooden shutters and lets the bright streetlights and moonlight flood in.

What's he supposed to even do when Lance comes over? Have a bed ready? Food?   
He honestly has no idea what to do. Hell, his hair is still a greasy mess from the plane and his short nap on the couch, and he smells so bad that Lance probably won't shut up when he comes over.

There's soft knocking on the door, and Keith walks over to peek through the peephole.

For a moment, he wonders if he really should open the door.

Lance stands outside, swaying slightly with his head lowered. An eerily submissive and quiet feeling emanates from him, like soft cords slowly tangling him up and choking him. Keith swallows, and he begins to undo the locks. As he slides out the chain lock, the links rattle and clink under his shaking grasp. He opens the door slowly, as to not make the hinges creak.

He's wary of making any loud noises around Lance right now.

_Wait. Why didn't I hear the floors creak?_

He swallows yet another lump in his throat and watches Lance carefully.

“...You okay?”

Lance peeks up, but for some reason he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the lower left corner of the room, as if he's trying to hide his face. There's a thin band of white that Keith notices sticking out of Lance's turtle-neck, which looks like it's been unfastened in the back to make room for the bandages.

“Mn,” he mutters with a faint smile.

It's a small utterance of reply, but a weight drops from Keith's shoulders and he lets Lance in. He's about to tease Lance for trying to keep up that cocky expression, but Keith stops when Lance stumbles in. The boy's sweating, despite the painfully cold and frosty air outside, and his skin is pale, with deep shadows under the eyes. Lance sees the couch and tries to make a beeline for it around Keith. Instead, his toes catch on an uneven floorboard and he topples forward. Keith's arm snaps out just in time to catch Lance.

Keith thought Lance was like a stork when they first met – lanky and long-limbed. After their meals together, he noticed that clothes didn't seem to sag as much off of Lance. Now he just feels bones against his flesh, sharp and pronounced.

“Sorry. Everything just... spins,” Lance explains.

A memory pops into Keith's head, of Shiro placing his hand on Keith's forehead to check for a fever. He copies the memory, and Lance immediately leans in as he feels Keith's cool palm against his flesh.

“Hah. Just like mama used to.”

Keith ignores the comment, and can only frown at what he feels. It's like there's near-boiling water streaming through Lance's veins underneath his skin, but Lance still shivers heavily from time to time.

“Bathroom.”

“Huh?”

“Bathroom.”

“Uh... oh! Oh, in my room and to the left!”  
Lance nods and totters towards Keith's room. He's surprisingly steady – before slamming straight into the door frame. Then it takes him a good minute to just pull himself up and dart inside. Keith stares in horror, then starts digging through his cabinets for painkillers.

 

This headache feels like it's slowly digging an ice pick into the depths of Lance's brain, while simultaneously many small needles are being pushed into the back of his eyeballs. Pain makes Lance's stomach turn, and he freezes, dropping to a knee as he grips the counter top by Keith's bed. The bump knocks a photo down onto the ground in front of him, and a switch flips in his head.

Its of Keith, being hugged by the former Black, Takashi Shirogane.

 

His friend has information that might be useful to his mission.

Suddenly the nausea doesn't matter that much. Suddenly nothing seems to matter that much, and it feels like Lance's seeing everything behind a thick pane of blurry glass. He picks up the photo and starts to walk out.

Keith mulls over between two painkiller strengths. It looked like Lance slammed into that door pretty hard, but maybe it only looks bad? Then out of nowhere, a shiver cuts down his spine like a freezing knife, and the pills slip from his hands.

They need to get out.

Now.

“Lance!”  
There's no response, and Keith clicks his tongue and runs towards the door.

“Lance, we gotta-!”

He slams into Lance, but the other boy doesn't even flinch. Keith's eyes widen and slowly, he scoots back, teeth gritted. He's made a terrible mistake. That dangerous feeling is coming from...

“Lance?”

Keith never stops scooting back, moving towards his luggage where his sword and dagger are stashed. Lance's merely holds up a photo, the one of Keith and Shiro. Fear vanishes from Keith, replaced with anger.

“Bastard! Put that down right-!”

“Takashi Shirogane. The Black of the Garrison. What is your relation to him?”

Lance's voice isn't angry or urgent. Rather, it's flat – devoid of all emotion. What he says makes Keith's heart hurt though. First, his jaw slightly parts, and his eyebrows scrunch up as he struggles to sort through his emotions.

So in the end, Lance was from the Garrison too.

He pitches over, laughing.

What kind of terrible bullshit is this?

“If you refuse to cooperate, then I will get that information by force.”

“...Was it all an act?”

Lance flash-steps over, his fist whistling by Keith's head. Keith gives a tilted stare back. Lance's form is perfect, and Keith can still feel the blade of air passing over his scalp. Not that he was ever in any danger of getting hit in the first place.

“You seriously think you can beat me in hand to hand?” Keith whispers back, eyes wide with his own killing intent. Lance makes no response and tries to back off, but Keith's hands shoot out and wrap around Lance's arm. The stiff muscles bulge under Keith's sleeve like bands of iron, and no matter how much Lance tries to pull away, Keith's arms don't move by even an atom.

“Honestly, fuck you, Lance.”

He flings the boy up straight up like a rag doll, then quickly twists around and slams Lance down with all of his strength. Lance coughs as his body bounces off the floor, and the moment Keith's vice-like grip lets up, he retreats back, his posture low and wary like some sort of animal. His eyes, flat as his voice, scan over Keith, and he seems to have come to some sort of decision. He reaches behind his back and pulls out a gun.

 

Pidge carefully stashes Lance's thigh-holster, gun, and some of his random gadgets into a secret compartment built into her desk. The least they can do is make sure that he doesn't go over to his friend's place, drugged _and_ armed to the teeth. Something still makes her feel uneasy for some reason.

Is this really everything?  
  


Keith gapes as Lance aims the gun at him.

“What the fuck?!”

That Pidge and Hunk person. Did they send Lance over with weapons on purpose? Was this all a plot to kill him or take him down as a Garrison defector? Lance fires off a shot and Keith doesn't have any more time to think – he dives for his suitcase, dodging another shot by a hair's width. The bullet smashes through the window with open shutters, clearing a space through the glass. Without even pausing to consider any other options, Keith crashes through, his suitcase in front of him to shield him against any jagged edges of glass.

Lance quietly watches as Keith disappears under the window. Inside he's screaming, wondering what he's doing, but at the same time his head is telling him that he needs to get Keith and squeeze from from him every bit of information that could help find the Black of the Garrison. For the first time since the switch has been flipped, he sighs, the look in his eyes swamped with apathy and exhaustion. Quick as it came, it rolls back. He leaps out the window, the lines of his body unnaturally elegant and poised under the moonlight.

Immediately Keith launches forward and swings his dagger straight up, slicing into the bottom of Lance's palm. Lance's hand reflexively unfolds, and Keith's dagger keeps traveling up, knocking out the handgun ten feet up into the air, where it spins and arcs and dives down the side of the roof. The gun smashes into the ground with a shattering crash, and before the sound has subsided, Keith presses the tip of his dagger into the underside of Lance's chin, where the suit doesn't reach. Blood runs down Lance's skin, feeling like liquid fire in this freezing night. Streams of vapor are billowing from both of their mouths and noses as both of them breathe heavily, but when Lance reaches up to touch and look at the blood, Keith makes no move to stop him.

The blood on his fingers is bright red. For some reason, that color makes a crack in that glass wall, and from behind, he screams even louder and bangs his fists on it, tired and scared and desperate. Lance groans and topples down, his knees smacking into the shingles. Red is the color of blood, of that terrible jacket Keith lent him, and of the Color who defected, chasing after Shiro.

While the pieces of the puzzle finally settle into place, he doesn't even notice how Keith has also rushed down in front of him, checking his temperature again and saying something to Lance. He can only think and realize and hate this bizarre coincidence. Keith is former Garrison. He is Garrison. Maybe Keith wanted to run away from the Garrison, and maybe Lance also wanted to. Somehow they found each other while sharing that same sentiment, but in the process they did nothing but achieve the opposite. Lance breaks into giggles, covering his face and falling onto his side, smearing more blood over his face in the process. He curls up and refuses to listen to a thing Keith is saying.

“We'll never escape,” he mumbles. “Former Red, current Blue – happiness outside of hell doesn't exist,” he muses and mumbles, all while Keith is shaking him by the shoulders, yelling something along the lines of 'snap out of it'.

By now, the rambling and erratic behavior is starting to get clearer and clearer to Keith.

Lance has just gone through a bout of reconditioning.

It all lines up with what Pidge mentioned, and despite everything, now he wants to hope that the gun was nothing but an honest mistake as well. He keeps shaking Lance, but Lance won't ever shut up.

Then, as if a miracle has happened, Lance goes silent.

“...uh oh.”

“...What?”

Lance uncurls like a snake and rushes inside at a breakneck pace. Keith sticks his head carefully through the window, then winces. Even from here, he can hear Lance vomiting. Keith's lips are stretched into a thin, taut line as he reaches in and unclasps the window, before sliding it up and crawling in safely. He makes an extra trip to grab his suitcase as well. Lance peacefully vomits while Keith heads downstairs. Outside, the view is so much different from the ground, as the tall buildings let only the orange streetlights exclusively glow and flicker. A quick walk later around the building, and he finds the gun. Now he knows for sure it's Garrison tech. There's barely a dent in it, even after a four or five-story fall.

Back in the apartment, once it's all been safely locked up, Keith notices that Lance has curled up onto the couch and is dead asleep, blood still sluggishly dripping from his palm. He doesn't even twitch when Keith tosses the gun onto the kitchen counter with a clatter. Lance's body rises and falls, his clothes rippling like small waves, and it's as if Keith's body suddenly remembers it's own exhaustion. Like some sort of mental drug of his own kicking in, keeping his eyes open and his body coordinated now feels like one of the hardest things Keith has ever had to do in his whole life.

He stumbles over to the foot of the couch and collapses, his back resting against the couch and the world going dark as he plunges into sleep so deep, not even dreams are possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that we've introduced a shitload of plotlines, I guess we better start moving.


	8. Sick Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recuperation is long and annoying, but it really can't be avoided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaaaack~! Sorry to keep everyone waiting, no sirree, we're in this for the LONG HAUL.
> 
> As always, thanks for the comments!!! I really don't lie when I say they help me keep going ;;

Sunlight streams in through the broken window. A single, golden ray hits Lance straight in the face and burns him through the eyelids, and he barely stops himself from yelping. Whimpering, he covers his face with a groan and tries to squirm away, and falls right off the couch. His face smacks into the floors as half of his body tumbles, and on the way down he kicks Keith perfectly in the back of the head. The boy's eyes snap open and he leaps away by instinct, slamming right into the coffee table, where he smashes his solar plexus into. Pain and nausea rips through his gut, and Keith makes a small scream as falls onto the ground near Lance with a dull _thud._ They both roll about and groan in pain.

Keith recovers first and sits up, running his tongue over his teeth as there's an absolutely disgusting taste in his mouth. He peeks out, and the sun high in the air blinds his unadjusted eyes with light, making him nearly shriek. The pain subsides, and he crawls over Lance to check outside. The cobblestone roads are busy, and he can hear the vehicles in the distance as everyone goes along with their day. A woman is leading her child by the hand on the street outside the apartment, but she walks too fast. Her son drops his ice cream and starts to cry, loud enough to pierce through almost the entire neighborhood. From the ground, Lance moans and tries to cover his ears and clutch his head simultaneously. Keith crawls off the couch with a sigh. Bloodstains that have dried into the cushions, like large, red-brown splotches, thick and crusted over every thread in the fabric.

...They're never going to come out.

“M-mornin',” Lance mumbles, as he finally pulls himself up into some sort of a mix between a kneel and a sit. His voice still sounds creaky and scratchy.

“Morning,” Keith replies back while Lance drowsily blinks his bleary eyes.

They watch each other, waiting.

Finally, Lance breaks the silence.

“S-sorry,” he mutters.

Keith stares back, then eventually nods.

“Go take a shower first. I'll find clothes.”

Tension deflates from Lance's shoulders, and while he's no longer running into walls, he still stumbles his way to through Keith's door, past the counter top with Shiro's photo, and into the bathroom, where he shuts the door behind him. It still smells faintly of his vomit. He fishes through his pockets to find his choker, the blue stone gleaming under the cheap lighting. With relieved sigh, he polishes the stone with his thumb and places it on the edge of the sink. Then he takes off his bladed hairpin and places it next to it.

With slow, pained actions, he finally begins to strip, shrugging off his coat and kicking off his boots first, letting them smack onto the tiles, before pulling off his pants. Finally he drags down the zipper of the under suit, but his hand cramps up in pain only halfway down. He cries softly, before noticing the gash running through the thick part of his right palm. Luckily the wound isn't bleeding, and the flesh looks dry, surrounded by brown flecks of blood. Gritting his teeth, he uses his left hand instead to pull the zipper all the way down to the small of his back. It peels off like a wetsuit, and Lance rolls it down to his waist before leaning into the mirror to get a closer look at himself, loosening the bandages around his neck so that they drape over his skin. The bruise around his neck has now has more tinges of green and grey mixed in with the purple, there are dark circles under his eyes, and his face looks oddly flushed.

A clack sounds from the side and the door opens, Keith popping in with a bundle in his other hand.

“Here. I also grabbed a pair of boxers, and you can bitch about how weird it is, but trust me, it's just as fucking awk-what the _fuck_?”

Lance blinks back, then quickly holds a hand in front of his throat and grabs the clothes from Keith in a single step forward and back.

“Be out in a bit,” he mutters, his voice rattling around as he shuts the door in Keith's face. As he does, his head goes light, and he has to stand still, hand pressed to the door for a moment as the world spins. The dizziness eventually passes, and carefully, slowly this time, he places the clothes on the edge of the sink, strips completely, pees, then takes a shower. The hot water makes him feel sleepy, and he feels his headache easing as he soaks up the heat, but every drop also makes his injuries sting, and despite wanting to soak for what feels like forever, he tries to scrub all the grime off of himself as fast as he can and get out. He gets dressed, not caring if he's wearing Keith's boxers. All that's left is his choker, but but he wipes his palm over the mirror and frowns. He can't wear his choker with his neck like this, and he opts to tie it around his right wrist.

 

Keith's seen the pale scars that criss-cross over Lance's tanned skin, but the hideous bruise reflected in the mirror is definitely new. Lance turns around and covers his throat, but he's got to be crazy if he thinks Keith can't see the bruises peppered over Lance's stomach as well, quarter-sized dots of black and blue. When Lance shuffles out of the bathroom, Keith's already got pills and a cup on the coffee table.

“Painkillers and water,” he says, pointing to them, before going to his room.

“Oh, and lemme look at your injuries when I'm done showering.”

Lance flops onto the couch and nods, quickly swallowing the pills and washing it down with the water. The warm rays of sunlight settle over his body, and he sighs and lets himself collapse back into the cushions, watching the sky through the shattered glass. He keeps his hands near his face, and the pendant of his choker rests on it's side, the tear-shaped stone sparkling, and the liquid inside just barely visible as it sloshes about.

“You'd probably be pissed if you could see me right now, right, Rowan?” Lance says to himself, closing his eyes to doze off.

Keith can still smell vomit and blood in the bathroom, but he grits his teeth and spends extra long to scrub off every inch of his skin, and it's as if he can feel dried sweat and grime actually flaking off his skin as scrubs with the soap and water. He hops out of the shower and dresses quickly in new clothes, his hands floating over the small knife in it's thigh holster. Gritting his teeth, he tosses it onto his bed afterwards, so that the humidity doesn't damage it. He also notices a suspiciously large hairpin on the sink, and when he examines it, he merely sticks it in the medicine cabinet, trying not to think about what could've happened if Lance had slit his throat with that evil edge while he was sleeping. By the time he strolls into the living room with the first aid kit from under his bed, he feels so much better.

“Lance, lemme see – huh?”

Lance is asleep, and dead to the world. The sunlight that bothered him so much in the beginning isn't doing a thing now, and he's curled on his side, the light washing over him with warmth. Slowly, Keith makes his way over and quietly kneels by the couch, the floorboards barely creaking.

He checks Lance's phone.

Three missed calls.

With a sigh he pockets the phone again. It's not like he can unlock it himself.

From his spot, he presses the back of his hand against Lance's forehead again, where it's still hot to the touch. Lance doesn't even stir. He opens the kit and checks Lance's hand first, the sparkling stone on his wrist drawing his attention. He feels like he wants to stare at it forever, as it casts watery ripples of light over Lance's skin, but he tears his gaze away. There's more important things to do.

The bleeding seems to have started again after the shower, but now it's stopped again, after the blood's already dripped some more over the couch. Keith fills a small basin with some hot water and finds a cloth and a bar of soap to use, and from there he gently cleans out the wound. He drags the cloth a bit too roughly through the cut, and Lance's hand twitches as he whines and tucks inwards just a tinier bit tighter.

“Sorry.”

There's no reply from Lance, and Keith murmurs in surprise at how deeply the other boy is asleep as he finishes properly washing out the wound. He applies antiseptic, a pad of gauze, then wraps it in place with a bandage. For a moment, he stares at the bandage, head tilted.

“Sorry,” he says again, even if Lance can't hear.

From there, he moves to the bruise on Lance's neck. It takes some finagling, but Keith manages to tilt Lance's head back so that he can see the bruise better. It's a nasty piece of work though, and when he peers in closer, he swears he can see finger imprints.

“Guess I'm not the only one you pissed off, huh? Jeez,” Keith sighs, running a balm over the blotches of unnatural color. He covers the whole thing with a layer of gauze, so that at least Lance won't be drawing so much attention with such a flashy injury. Some more antiseptic and one last band-aid on the nick underneath Lance's jaw, and it's all done. Keith actually feels a bit proud of his handiwork. It's neat and clean, and he sits back dumbly, not sure what to do now.

He can't do anything about the bruises on Lance's stomach without things getting awkward, so maybe he should work on the fever now? But how do you even help a fever? You just have to let someone rest it off. Lance starts to snore as Keith goes to find a comforter of sorts to toss over his friend, and it takes him a few minutes digging through his closet before he find something. He drapes the throw over Lance, and after standing in the window for a little bit, Keith stumbles back into his bedroom, dropping the knife on the mattress onto the counter and collapsing onto his bed once more, stuck in a deep sleep.

This time, when he wakes up again, his stomach's rumbling, and the sun's dipped down from the center of the sky. Yawning, he goes to check on Lance again. To his surprise, Lance is still snoring away. The blanket has slipped off, and he pulls it back up, checking on Lance's fever again. Keith's stomach rumbles again, and he puffs up his cheeks and sits on the ground, glaring at Lance. The center window is still shattered, so he'll have to call in someone to repair it. Plus, there's still bullets lodged in the walls. For those he'll have to buy caulking when he goes to get food.

What the hell would Shiro do if he was here right now? If it was him that was sick? Hell, even if it was a stranger like Lance, Shiro would probably still take care of them.

Also, as hungry as he is, it would definitely be bad to leave Lance alone. He sits there, mulling over his options, when he remembers to check the phone again.

Two more missed calls.

He sighs and hopes Lance's friends will call for once when they're not both half-dead. He places the phone onto the coffee table, the wood making a pleasant clacking noise. Lance twitches at the noise, and as Keith turns around in surprise, Lance lunges at him with a knife hand.

In a flash, Keith grabs Lance's arm, staring him down as Lance stares back with wide eyes. His straightened fingers loosen and curl up, and the lithe tension in his body drains away as the rest of his body loosens. Lance rubs his eyes, and takes another good look at Keith again.

“Oh. Uh... Sorry, I didn't-”

“Save your excuses for later,” Keith snaps, tossing down Lance's arm. “Tell me when I don't need to worry about you trying to kill me.”

He gets up to leave, grabbing his coat and wallet, but Lance tries to speak again, wincing.

“I didn't mean to!”

His eyes widen and Lance clutches his throat, but he looks up at Keith's frozen back, breathing out through clenched teeth.

“I just thought you were someone else! Honest!”

Small tears of pain are beading up in the corner of his eyes, and he collapses into the cushions as Keith finally leaves, slamming the door behind him. There's a metallic taste in Lance's mouth, and when he spits into his palm, there's a tendril of red in it.

“Jesus...”

What was he even dreaming about?

...He can't quite remember.

That doesn't matter though. He tried to take Keith out. Again. After practically freeloading at the guy's place and getting babysat. What a mess. He sighs, but chokes off midway, a burning pain swirling at the heart of his throat. Is it from vomiting or getting the living daylights choked out of him? Or maybe both? He picks up his phone and unlocks it, especially after seeing all the missed calls.

 

lance

[Sorry, cant talk right now]

 

pidgeon

[Gosh, Lance, are you alright?! We kept calling!]

 

lance

[pff Im fine pidgeon]

 

bro

[Keith's not treating you bad, right?]

 

Lance notices the bandages on his hand, and he touches the scratchy gauze on his neck, feeling some sort of slick salve over the skin underneath, before he replies back to Hunk.

 

lance

[No hes been really nice]

[actually I already tries to kill him twice]

[*tried]

 

pidgeon

[Jesus Lance, you got fucked up, huh?]

[btw how'd you nearly take him down?]

 

lance

[Hardy har pidgeon]

[first w/ a gun secnd w/ a hand]

 

bro

[WAIT]

[a GUN?!]

 

Lance frowns, then starts typing back at top speed.

 

Keith leaves the store, a stick of caulking in a plastic bag. If he's lucky, he can just cover up the holes without taking out the bullets and the landlord will be none the wiser. The window on the other hand... is probably going to wipe out the security deposit.

“Ugh, fuck you Lance,” he mutters, covering his face. His stomach gurgles with an especially loud noise, and a parent nearby takes one look at Keith and quickly hurries his daughter along. Keith frowns, scratching his head, then suddenly realizes. It feels like every lock of his hair is sticking up at every angle and at every length, and in general, it's probably the worst bed head he's ever had. He went to sleep with greasy hair, then he went to sleep again with wet hair. What was he honestly expecting? He actually starts taking a good look at himself, and it's only now that he also notices that Lance's dried blood is also on his jacket, somehow overlooked despite the rust color being splashed over bright red. So he's essentially been walking around looking like a hungry murderer.

Keith groans and heads off for a grocery store, and he grabs some ready made sandwiches and frozen meals, when he notices a tin of tea on sale. It's some weird spiced fruit flavor that Shiro probably would've loved. The weirder the tea, the more likely Shiro was going to love it, even if it made Keith gag a little. Lance's voice did sound really bad when he was leaving, so maybe tea would help? He throws the tin into his basket, and goes back to get some lighter foods that Lance might be able to keep down. After all, he's still sick. For now, he'll give his friend the benefit of doubt. Maybe it _was_ just an honest mistake, and it's not like he was in any danger either. It'll probably take Lance years before he'll even be a big threat in hand to hand combat against a former Red.

 

Lance's eyes hurt, and he feels a bit sick again. He places his phone back onto the table, leaving Pidge and Hunk hanging, but his body is stiff, and he takes deep breaths, ignoring how his throat hurts and instead focusing on quelling the uneasiness in his stomach. He hasn't even eaten anything, so nothing should come up anyway. The wave of nausea eventually passes, and exhaustion surges through his body again, all of sudden. Who would've thought that even texting would be too much for him?

 

lance

[srry feeling tired im out]

 

bro

[it's cool! Rest up!]

 

pidgeon

[get better soon!]

 

He flops back onto the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around him. Cold air is flowing in as night falls, but he feels that if he closes the shutters he'll suffocate on the smell of blood and stagnant air. Right as he feels that he's drifting off, the door opens again, and Keith almost immediately after coming in gets to work locking up all seven of those locks, and soon Lance pulls himself up again, grimacing at the sound.

“Heya,” he groans.

“Jeez, you really do sound like shit.”

Lance glares, then makes a show of sealing his lips and finger-spelling something back.

'Sign language?' Keith finger-spells back in surprise, and he waits for Lance to answer, taking his time to piece together the words.

'Finger-spell only'

'Rowan had a phase'

'BTW Pidge and Hunk sorry'

'Thought they took everything'

“Oh, tell them it's okay. Was Rowan your mentor or something?”

Lance nods, and a cold wind blows through, making him shiver.

“Just close the shutters,” Keith says, going through his grocery bag. He peeks from his peripherals and mentally dances around over the fact that Lance isn't bitching about premade food.

Lance just shakes his head, and once more Keith looks up to watch and wait.

“Too... Stuffy?”

Lance nods, and Keith scowls.

“I'll go grab more blankets then. Happy, princess?”

He laughs as Lance pouts and curls up into his current blanket. At least Lance has the decency to realize he's an uninvited guest. This time Keith comes back, his arms full with two huge comforters that he tosses over Lance, nearly smothering the boy. Lance literally claws his way out and frantically begins rearranging the covers like some sort of animal, pushing and pawing at the fabric until he's transformed the couch's surface area into his personal nest of blankets, all while Keith microwaves a cup of water in a mug and figures out how to heat up the canned soup. The water starts steaming, and he takes out the mug. Then, looking at the label on the can of soup, he splits the portions and adds water to two bowls, before microwaving both. While that's going, he drops some tea into the mug and lets it steep.

“Here, see if you can keep this down,” Keith says, bringing over the soup and the tea. Lance scoots over a bit, and Keith shrugs.

“Hm? Sure, I guess.”

After getting his own food, he squishes into the small hollow on the couch where the blankets have been pushed flat and starts drinking the soup and eating one of the sandwiches, pausing to turn on the TV in boredom. On the screen, a weatherman starts rambling about how chilly tomorrow will be.

“By the way, your friends called a bunch but I kept missing the calls. Did you contact them?”

Lance waves his phone in the air, and Keith sinks down the cushions a bit.

“Cool. When you feel better, you're gonna help me fill in the bullet holes you made. Also you better pay for the window. Wait, _are_ you any better?”

He slaps the back of his hand straight up, smacking it directly into the center of Lance's face, chuckling as he hears the boy's muffled yelp.

“Mm, nope. You still have a fever.”

'Tomorrow probs better'

“Again? Uh... Oh, okay. If you say so. You owe me big time after this, goddammit. Are you planning on making food for me for the rest of my life or something?”

'Who knows'

“Bastard. How're you gonna make up nearly killing me?”

'Dunno'

“Fucker.”

Lance flips Keith off for good measure.

“You started it.”

The two go silent for a moment, before Keith bursts into quiet chuckles, and Lance struggles not to laugh, clutching his throat and stomach as he's caught between a grimace and a wide smile. He smothers his laughs and takes a quick sip of tea, tensing up as it stirs up pain in his throat all the way down.

Pushing his voice this morning was definitely a terrible idea.

Trying to drink even this thin soup hurts, but by now the pain is definitely bearable, and he tries to finish everything as fast as he can to get it over with. He can't get better without food after all, and this stuff doesn't taste half bad at all after rations for so long. There's something important he feels like he's forgetting though, and he mulls thoughtfully over his food.

Lance's back snaps up to attention, and he taps Keith's shoulder.

'Old Red,' he signs, his face filled with questioning.

Keith's eyes widen, but he still takes a bite out of his sandwich before nodding, an exasperated look on his face.

“Yeah? How'd you know?”

'Pidge said old Red ran after Shiro gone'

“So you pieced the two together after seeing that photo? Then what are you?”

'Blue,' Lance finger-spells, grinning.

Keith pieces together the letters, and his lungs freeze up. There's a layer of ice coating the insides of them, and the terrible feeling of a large rock plunging down in his stomach makes him put his food on the coffee table next to Lance's half-empty bowl.

 

_“_ _We have it pretty good though,” Shiro says as the two of them go through their everyday maintenance. There are guns to be cleaned, blades to be sharpened, and gear to be double-checked._

_“If you call nearly dying every mission 'pretty good', then fine by me,” Keith replies sarcastically with a little laugh._

_“Nah, in my opinion it's the Blues who have it the worst.”_

_“Assassinations? Suuure, I bet.”_

_“That's true, but we're also talking solo wipeouts and even cleanups sometimes too.”_

_Keith's hands slip, and he swears quietly as he nearly cuts himself._

_“What? I heard they exclusively did assassinations,” he argues, pushing some of his work to the side as his interest is piqued._

_“Yeah, but sometimes you might need to clear out a whole compound to get to a target, right?”_

_“Jeez, that's insane.”_

_“It's pretty interesting, but also contradictory. The Blues are the ones that have the highest mortality rate, but it's also the hardest to find suitable candidates. On top of that, it's a position that not many people want to do...”_

_“Blackmail,” Keith realizes after a pause._

_“That's horrible.”_

 

There's no way Lance can't see it on Keith's face, as the boy realizes with a start that one day Lance could just up and disappear. That already happened with Shiro, so he knows he shouldn't be so surprised, but yet here he is, quietly panicking.

Lance shakes his head.

'Won't die'

Keith watches Lance's slim fingers move with ill-looking eyes, and he struggles to scoff with a smile.

“Hah, you're a pretty confident bastard, aren't ya?”

'Cuz I'm friends with two geniuses'

“Those Pidge and Hunk people?”

Keith doesn't sound so confident.

Lance nods and gestures to his stomach.

'Buckshot'

Keith puzzles over what Lance is trying to communicate, and his face goes pale.

“Wait... You're telling me... That your friends made those clothes you came here wearing, and those clothes... You got hit with a _shotgun_?”

Pride's written all over Lance's face as Keith's jaw drops, and he lies dumbly on the couch, eyes wide and head fuzzy.

No. This doesn't make him feel any better at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, don't microwave water... You can accidentally superheat it depending on water quality, since you might not see any steam... Keith's allowed to because he's a kitchen idiot.


	9. Please Trust Me. Please.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything's gonna be okay.  
> Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I really gonna post a new chapter at fucking 3 AM??? You bet ur fucking ass I'm gonna!!!

Keith doesn’t know when Lance stops talking back, but he looks over mid-sentence and the boy is unconscious again. He’s perched on the arm of the couch, his head tilted awkwardly back against it, and he barely stirs under the blankets. Keith stares for a moment, then turns off the TV and gets up silently. The bag with the caulking and the scraper is still on the counter, and he gets to work, searching for holes in the plaster. As Lance sleeps, Keith stuffs the bullet holes with putty and smooths it out, leaving splotches of flat white on the cream walls.

 

“Keith?”

It’s the first thing Lance mumbles when he wakes up to the sound of harsh buzzing on wood. Clouds inside his skull muddle details and make his eyes lazily scan the area, where he sits cocooned inside his blankets, dumb and helpless. One minute, two minutes – eventually the haze clears, and he slides a hand near his phone, the skin on the tips of his fingers dragging along the glass, before he finally picks it up, the sensation dull and interrupted.

It’s a message in code, and he reads it as fluently as any language, memorizing the details before it deletes itself and vanishes. Of course, he’s already getting another job; especially after how he pissed off Iverson that much.

His clothes – his precious gift from his friends – where are they?

Blankets drape from his limbs and slip to the ground as he gets up and wanders around, before he stops at the door to Keith’s room. He’s already been in and out of it so often the past day or two that is shouldn’t matter, right? Still, he twists the knob with some hesitation, letting the door swing out on its hinges and come to a stop with creaking and squeaking.

This tiny room suddenly feels full of secrets.

Lance takes a step in, then another, before he strides over to near the bed, wondering if his clothes have been stashed underneath. His gaze catches on the counter though, and he gets to his knees, looking at the worn photo on it with new eyes. The two people pictured seem to be battered, but laughing wildly.

Most of all, Keith looks… happy. Happier than Lance has ever seen him, at least. The man swinging him up into the air is undeniably Shiro, the hope of all Disposables in the Garrison, and say what you will, but even in only a photo he seems to exude the feeling of _something_ heroic – a thing that Lance, will never, ever have. He sees it in the way Keith still sometimes flinches when he flash-steps a bit too suddenly for comfort, or when he moves about silently out of habit. Lance’s five senses may be amazing, but there must be something that he gives off that only Keith’s instincts would react so strongly to, something without physical presence but without a doubt must cling to him, just like the twenty notebooks back home and the one still in his coat pocket-

Lance’s jaw drops.

“Shit, shitshitshitshit-!”

 

A roll of quarters rattles about on a nearby washing machine, as Keith stares at the things he’s dumped out of the pockets on Lance’s coat. There are miscellaneous wrappers, a few spent shells for some odd reason, and a small, mysterious notebook. He picks it up in his hands, flipping the book from hand to hand on its weathered covers, before he finally opens it by a sliver. Slowly, he cracks it open, the ridge of black down the middle widening by what seems like slices of a millimeter, before he snaps it closed again. He firmly gathers all the junk into a small pile and keeps on throwing laundry into the washer as planned, pushing his curiosity to the side.

It’s none of his business, and he waits patiently for the clothes to wash and then dry, scrolling through his phone for any news from his sources on Shiro. When he gets back to his apartment, he nearly punts Lance in the head, as the boy suddenly seems to appear out of thin air in front of him.

“Goddamn, aren’t you still sick?!”

The basket drops from Keith’s hands, and he slaps his palm onto the Lance’s forehead, chuckling to himself as Lance suddenly scrunches up and goes wide-eyed, before sheepishly settling down. The skin under Keith’s palm is cool and soft, and he drops his hand from Lance in shock.

“Jesus, you’re all better again?”

“Yep yep!” Lance chirps with a hop and step.

Keith can already feel a headache coming on.

“Anyways,” Lance drawls, leaning in towards the basket, “are my clothes in there?”

“Yeah, and here’s your shit.”

Lance eagerly takes his things from Keith’s palms, his hands pausing over the notebook. He gingerly lifts it up and presses it against his face, covering his mouth with a thoughtful gaze.

“If you’re so curious, I didn’t look. Why the fuck would I look at your journal?” Keith says, swinging his arms down in exasperation.

“Journal… I guess that sounds about right.”

“Wait, what? That’s not? Lemme see then!”

“Hell no!” Lance screeches, hopping out of the way as Keith snatches at it.

Keith skids to a stop, then calmly picks up his basket of laundry and heads to his couch, where he starts organizing and folding clothes amongst the blankets he brought out for Lance. Lance blinks a few times, then leans back.

“You _owe_ me,” Keith declares.

The uneasy expression on Lance’s face turns into a scowl, and he presses himself against the wall with crossed arms.

“F-for what?”

The moment the words leave his mouth, his face grows ashy, and his entire posture slumps.

_I’m so screwed._

“Let’s see-,” Keith holds up an open hand, “-You tried to kill me.”

He folds in his thumb.

“Twice.”

Down goes the pointer.

“You broke a window and put holes in the walls.”

The ring finger.

“I treated your wounds.”

Pinky finger.

Keith raises his hand up at Lance.

“And before I forget – I’ve fucking babysat you for almost _two days_!”

Lance curls in on himself with every statement, but he keeps the notebook firmly pressed to his stomach, despite everything. He just… doesn’t want to show Keith something like this.

“…Sorry.”

Keith grins and leaps off the couch and heads straight for Lance.

“Cool, lemme see!”

To his surprise, Lance tucks himself in like a turtle.

“…No.”

“What the hell, I just told you that you totally owe me!”

“Nope!”

“Huh?!”

“I mean, yeah, I owe you, but no! This is off limits! Only Hunk knows about these!”

“You! Owe! Me!”

“I’ll pay for everything, ‘kay?! But you can’t look at this!”

“C’mon, I’m super curious now!” Keith says, lightly shoving at Lance’s shoulder. To his surprise, Lance’s muscles are drawn tight, and Lance doesn’t budge. Keith’s hand freezes, and he leans back from his crouch, so that he’s sitting on the floor.

“Oh. Um, sorry. I didn’t think it was that special.”

Lance uncurls from his ball, and Keith is expecting a scowl or something, but Lance just smiles and laughs weakly.

“Nah, it’s just me freaking out. Yeah, tell me how much I owe you and…”

The notebook is clutched between Lance’s fingers like talons, and Lance stares at how his knuckles have gone pale from the strain, a white gradient on dark skin. Keith waits, uneasily, as Lance seems to dissect himself, mentally.

Lance takes a deep breath, then breathes it all out in a second, annoyed, but far livelier compared to before.

“What the fuck did they use?” he grumbles, rolling his pendant between his fingers once more. “Sorry, I’ll be back to normal by tomorrow, I bet.”

“Cool,” Keith mutters back.

He stands up and offers a hand, which Lance gratefully grabs as he gets to his feet, his attention still elsewhere.

“I need to leave tonight, so thanks for everything!”

“Are you even ready to?”

“I better be.”

Keith merely rolls out his shoulders, sneaking a glance at the shadows under Lance’s eyes.

“Well, at least stay until lunch.”

“I can cook then, since I’m feeling better.”

“You sure? That’s another grocery trip for me then.”

“I’ll just go.”

“Like hell you are. Gimme a list.”

Lance’s smile twitches just the tiniest bit, and he straightens his back, right as Keith cracks his knuckles.

“I’m all stuffy and bored, and I feel a lot better. I wanna take a walk.”

“Says the person who just had a freakout.”

“That’s just the reconditioning. I don’t feel tired anymore.”

“You were like, deathly sick and mute yesterday, and now you’re saying that you’re perfectly fine? You could fucking drop like a pile of bricks in the middle of the street.”

“Argh, just come along then!”

“Huh?”

“Just come along then!” Lance snaps, jerking a thumb back at the door. “I need to do _something_ , ‘cause I can’t just sleep all day, right?”

Keith blinks owlishly.

" _I'm bored!_ "

Energy seems to deflate from Keith, who groans and nods in defeat.

“Fine.”

 

Despite everything Lance says and how he acts, there’s a certain sluggishness to his movements. The way an apple seems to drag back his hand, or how as he’s reading a package his posture seems a bit worse than usual – Keith’s watching so closely that he feels like a stalker. He feels just as awkward following Lance around, as the other boy is carrying the basket and deciding everything.

“You really like cooking, huh?” he asks offhandedly, when Lance starts looking at the produce like a trained chef, glancing over and tossing vegetables back into the pile with a precision that makes even the nearby housewives stare over in surprise.

“Mn? I guess, but I like food the most, and cooking’s just part of the process, right? Hunk is waaay better than me, and he even makes his own recipes! I’m pretty sure it’s the creativity part that he really likes, but he really, really loves food too. I should totally bring you some of his stuff someday – it’s fucking godly.”

_Someone who helped craft a suit that can stop point-blank buckshot is also an amazing chef?_

“…I’ll take your word for it, I guess,” Keith answers, his voice just a tiny bit wary.

Some more blank wandering and random buying, and Lance stares into his basket with a perplexed frown.

“Fuck it – you cool with curry?”

“Uh, I guess?”

“Nice.”

The basket dangles from Lance’s hand, and Keith grimly watches Lance sagging down with the weight, before he snatches it away in a single move.

“Hey!”

“I can carry it.”

“I told you, I’m not feeling that sick anymore!”

Keith scowls, wondering how to go about things. He could just admit that he feels awkward not doing anything, or…

The scowl flattens as he raises the basket up and flexes his arm, the muscles rippling under his shirt and even pushing against the loose sleeve of his jacket. Lance’s jaw drops in indignation, and Keith can practically see the gears in Lance’s head spinning at light speed as he struggles to talk back.

With puffed out cheeks Lance flexes his own arm, and while the muscles are lithe and toned under his clothes, it still doesn’t compare to Keith.

“Oh fuck you,” he grumbles.

Keith chuckles quietly, when Lance suddenly jerks back, his face flushing all over into a deep sienna. Puzzled, Keith turns around, and feels his own face promptly heat up into a bright, cherry-toned red. There’s a few people staring at them – a couple women trying not to laugh, while a few guys unconsciously grip at their own arms.

“Uh, ah, let’s go get some microwave rice and curry cubes, ‘kay?”

“S-sure.”

It feels like it’s been forever since they’ve properly eaten together, and when they both sit down, bowls of hot curry and rice in front of them, a cool breeze and warm sunlight bringing out all the cats to keep them company on the rooftop, Keith can feel a strange swell in his heart, one that he hasn’t felt in a long time. Lance laughs and smiles, and in his own head, all he wishes is that Hunk and Pidge were also here and he laughs and coos over the cats and plops them into Keith's lap.

 

Lance is gone now, and Keith jabs at the leftover curry he’s heated up, pressing a divot into the rice and watching the curry flow over and fill it in. He helped chop up the vegetables, while Lance took care of the actual cooking and stewing. It tastes good, but he sits there silently. The TV is on for background noise, but Keith doesn’t remember when he started feeling uncomfortable in the silence.

Silence is supposed to be good – it’s supposed to be peaceful, yet here he is, wasting electricity trying to push away that odd discomfort. Lance is strong, he knows that much, and he seems to be handling his workload rather well, but the bruises on Lance and the reconditioning he’s been through are unsettling. If the jobs don’t get Lance killed, then one day it’s going to be the Garrison that offs Lance somehow. If that happens, what can Keith do, without jeopardizing his current freedom as well as his personal mission to find Shiro on his own?

He’ll have to let Lance die, he thinks, trying to weigh his options with a cold, calculating heart. Shiro takes priority here, and… Keith’s chest twists up with pain. He can’t lose sight of his end-goal, but there’s only so much faith he can have in a friend who gets shot and choked and drugged all within the span of a day.

His phone chimes, and he reads the text from an unknown sender.

 

[Thanks.]

 

A shred of relief washes over Keith, and he places his phone facedown onto the table.

 

* * *

 

It’s a flimsy, antique lifeboat made of rotting wood that crumbles and flakes at the slightest press. Somehow, as a storm rages above, whipping up the waves into frenzied walls of crushing water and the rain falls so tightly together that it feels like needles cutting into the skin, the boat stays intact, pieces splintering off by the second. The man riding it grasps the sides with a deathly grip, teeth clenched as water pours down every inch of him. Lighting and thunder flash, and for the second it floods the entire sea with light, the man becomes crystal clear.

He is no longer the man in the photo.

Takashi Shirogane looks tired and weathered now, and even more muscular than before. The ice-white foam that tips and threads through every wave matches the white streaked through his scalp, and the entire tuft of overgrown hair in his face has also become a pale, pale white. A scar streaking over the bridge of his nose somehow manages to stand out even against his freezing skin. Most of all though, the warm hands that Keith loved so much are no longer there. Instead, one of his arms is a mix of grey metal, covered at the joints and artificial fingers with a sleek, black material.

A splash of saltwater flings the raft to the left, and in that moment of unbalance, one of those huge, towering waves kicks the raft into the air and slams into it, hurtling it towards the cliff wall. Before Shiro can even react, he’s drowning in salt and ice, and his heart and lungs shocked to a stop. Suffocation forces his mouth open in agony, but all he does is breathe in more freezing water that only hurts his chest more and makes him gasp and swallow more. As what little he can see finally begins to fade into an inky black, he wonders why he hasn’t hit the rocks and died yet.

 

_Vo..on… V..n… Fi..tron… Only… S...ve…_

             

What else was the voice saying?

He can’t remember, and the dream fades.

 

Shiro’s eyes snap open, and nausea and a pounding headache hit him like a brick to the face. He scrambles to his knees and vomits and coughs what for what feels like hours – buckets of water pouring from his lungs and stomach, with pockets of sand and strands of seaweed all mixed in. The entire time salt burns his throat and lungs on the way up. Tears bead up at the side of his eyes, and with one final cough, he spits a glob of reddish saltwater onto the thin layer of sand crusted over the stone ground.

 “Where am I?”

His voice reverberates throughout the cave, and with chills running through his aching body, he first looks to his sides. The walls look hundreds of yards apart, rough and dripping. Behind is what looks like a massive pond of water, but the way it violently sways and splashes against the small shore he’s collapsed on tells Shiro everything he needs to know.

“…What do I do now?” he asks himself.

If anything, he’s alive. He’ll drag himself out of this cave by his fingertips if he needs be, until he can get to land, and if he’s lucky, he’ll also find a home of sorts. Once he’s back to civilization, he’ll-

 

_Voltron._

Shiro grimaces and cradles his head as he stumbles to his feet with an uneasy sway.

No.

Whatever Voltron is, it’ll have to wait.

He has faith that Keith is alright, but knowing Keith, the young man has probably also done something rash. On top of it all, Shiro is certain that he’s been abandoned. He can’t panic, but once he’s gotten himself out of this mess, he needs to find a new way to just live and survive from day to day.

Yet Voltron nags at him.

He has the feeling that whatever it is, it’s something bigger than anything he’s ever been a part of; that it’s something that will one day swallow him up along with so many other things linked to him, and that’s what terrifies him.

Will it kill him and everything he cares about, or will it bring them glory?

He can’t hear the splashing shore anymore. True darkness surrounds him, and Shiro begins to question his own senses, as the sound of blood rushing in his ears in time with his heartbeat grows louder and louder, stirring up an indescribable terror in him. His arm glows as he mentally activates it, but even the artificial purple light can’t pierce the darkness far enough for Shiro’s comfort. The only thing ahead is a faint blue glow, and he follows it almost unconsciously, out of some primitive urge rather than anything resembling consciousness.

The glow gets larger and larger, and Shiro walks faster and faster, until he’s sprinting towards the light, not caring anymore what it could be. The glow starts to take shape, slimming down into a sleek, seed-shaped pod. Shiro’s feet crush the ancient pebbles into fine dust, and his steps and breathing become the only noise in the cave, until they too also fade out, as he stands in front of pod.

Inside, a beautiful girl sleeps, her dark skin warm and flawless even under the harsh glow of the pod. Silver hair frames her strongly defined features, while the rest curls over her shoulders and the ends poke out from under her waist. Right over her forehead, a golden circlet rests, and from her ears dangle lamé-thin chains with deep purple gems at the end.

A real-life Sleeping Beauty, but even Shiro has no idea how long she’s been here.

 

_F…nd Voltr…n_

 

Shiro’s head hurts.

 

_Find Voltron…_

 

It throbs.

 

_Find Voltron and…_

 

It’s not from the near-drowning, is it?

_Find Voltron and…!_

 

Pain rips through Shiro’s skull, like awls skewering into it from every angle, and he pitches forward with a cry, his hands slamming onto the pod. The Galra prosthetic faintly glows for a fraction of a second, and the entire pod flashes like a star.

 

_Find Voltron and save humanity!_

 

When Shiro can see again, he’s busy blinking spots out from his eyes, and he notices that the lid of the pod has flipped open. Freezing smoke pours out, and inside, the girl stirs.

Slowly, deliberately, her eyes…

 

Open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn this was fun to write, especially the last part!


	10. Vacation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some relaxing is had and a few bombs are dropped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyyy wassup I'm back. School and writing is annoyingly hard to juggle.
> 
> As usual, thanks for all the kudos and comments! They really make my day every single time!!!

For a cult facility, everything looks like a surprisingly normal, run-of-the-mill office building. The carpet is a mottled grey, the walls are beige, the coffee table is made of dull-colored wood, chairs are plastic, and there’s even a few fake plants in the lobbies and waiting rooms. He looks over the cameras, and spares a glance at the dead security guard tucked into the corner.

“Ohhh, there we go,” Lance mutters, his fingers stopping on the scroll-button. Another set of facilities are also hidden here, and he can see people moving throughout labs and pale colored medical rooms. To Lance’s relief, there don’t seem to be any prisoners, just poor saps being experimented on and prepared for something with copious amounts of chemical baths and amputations to shear away anything the cult deems “unnecessary” for these individuals. For some people it’s eyes and limbs, for others the ligaments in their joints; for the lucky ones maybe just hair and toes. They lay in their beds, hairless and helplessly squirming, like babies.

The only issue now is how to get in. Frowning, Lance taps his fingers on the desk, pausing every now and then to adjust his gloves. He sighs and gets up from the desk, pausing to stretch his body before strolling outside the security room. Within the facility’s main rooms, he gently taps the tips of his boots on the ground periodically. The layout of the lab mimics the layout of this building, so all that means is that he has to find the right entrance. Or, to make this a lot less tedious, he can just do this:

He goes into a small office without windows and starts shooting into the floor.

The carpet shreds away to reveal solid metal plating, and he flashes one of the best slasher smiles he’s ever made at the camera, in his own humble opinion. On cue, smoke from hidden canisters in the walls begins to fill up the room, floating up and making Lance’s head dizzy from the sweet smell. Grunting, he pretends to cough, secretly swallowing a tablet hidden in his palm. It pays to research the enemy’s tactics, including what kind of poisons they like to use. He counts to ten, then drops to the ground, limbs messily splayed out. Minutes later he hears something slide open with a hydraulic hiss, and two people grasp him by the arms and legs, their rubber gloves tacky and uneven to the touch. The men mutter, voices muffled, but there’s a relieved tone to their words.

“Finally found a holdover,” one of them tells the other.

“Yeah. Outsiders barely need any prep, so let’s toss this kid in soon.”

“Why was he here though?”

“C’mon, headquarters sent out false intel, remember?”

“They did?”

“Missed the memo? Again?”

“Shut up.”

They move down an elevator and into a nearby room, where they drop him onto the concrete. Lance bears the pain of bones on concrete, not even flinching. While they begin to restrain his hands and feet, the acrid smell of blood in the room suddenly grows unbearably strong.

“Heave ho,” one of the men mutters jokingly to himself.

Suddenly, Lance realizes how slick and polished the floor feels, how easy to clean it must be. His eyes snap open and he sits up, knocking back the man and sliding off the chains being put on him. It’s too late though, and the men in the bio-hazard suits can only yell in surprise and leap back, spilling the whole entire bucket of blood over him. It clatters to the ground, and Lance fires off two silenced shots before either man can react.

“Jesus, what the fuck?!”

The scent of blood completely overwhelms his sense of smell, and soon Lance can’t smell anything. Blood drips down his clothes in rivulets of red, and wherever he walks, lines of red trail onto the linoleum. He spits the taste of blood onto the ground and yanks key cards off the corpses, whining and twisting around to look at himself as he walks out. There’s a row of identical rooms down the hall, and to Lance’s surprise, he can hear a noise behind one next to him. He holds one of the key cards near the lock, and as expected, the door clicks. In a single movement he swings it open and strides in, just in time to smack a terrified boy to the ground. The chains around his ankles jingle like bells on the floor, and the child sits there, cautiously staring up. It takes Lance a moment to remember that he doesn’t look the most flattering right now.

“Um, are you okay?”

The boy shrinks away, and Lance falters. He kneels down onto the concrete floor and starts to pick the locks, trying to smile a lovely smile at the child, despite looking so bloodied. The shackles fall off, and he gets up, figuring the boy won’t move until he’s gone.

“Listen, alright?" Lance says, his voice soft. "The exit is really close nearby. If you go out the door and turn left, the first door on the right leads out to an elevator, and from there the office building on top goes outdoors into some kinda field. I don’t really know this area, but I figure you do. See ya, and good luck.”

He doesn’t look back when he hears steps frantically pounding onto concrete. Lance starts to systematically check and clear out rooms, downloading information from desktops and equipment when necessary. Sirens are blaring and screams echo throughout the halls as lights flash, but Lance merely flinches at all the stimuli and advances forward. There’s still a few things left to do. Looking closely at a map of the labs, he smiles as he sees where the armory is also located.

 

“Woohooooo!”

Lance is screaming giddily as he sprints from the complex, his feet pounding on concrete and then dried grass. Laughing and wiping blood from his face, he dives for a ditch right as the entire complex explodes and collapses. In the distance the facility is now just a sea of bright red and orange flames, licking at the stars and belching smoke into the air. There’s a strong urge to giggle as he crawls out and starts hiking for the pick-up point. A few minutes later, he sees a figure in the distance and runs over, waving.

“Lennard! You came to pick me up?”

He closes the distance in seconds, but suddenly skids to a halt, his boots kicking up clods of dirt as he sees what’s behind Lennard. There's a small body laying face down in the dead grass, dark colored fluids slowly being swallowed up by the dirt around it's head. On the body's ankles there's blisters and chafe marks from being shackled. 

Lance's stomach sinks.

“Blue. I was sent to make sure that no survivors could escape before the clean-up crew came. I didn’t think I’d actually have to do anything.”

A single shot to the head. That’s all it takes. Lance glances down at the rifle in Lennard’s hand, and he swallows hard and laughs.

“Oh man, sorry about that. I’ve been feeling a bit out of it lately.”

To his credit, Lennard tries to ignore the mess and hesitantly clasps a hand on Lance’s shoulder, the warmth firm and reassuring, even through the cold blood soaked into his clothes. Lance is almost scared to look at the man, but eventually he musters the courage to raise his head. Lennard doesn’t look angry at all. Rather, just a bit concerned. Lance doesn't know how to feel about that. Just _bad_. The hand slides off and Lance drags his feet as he trails Lennard to the chopper.

Right before Lennard gets in, he wipes his hand on his pants, waiting until Lance is right behind him to turn around and yell something over the roar of chopper blades.

 “You should go visit your family! It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?!”

 

Lance leans in to peer at his reflection, running his fingers down his throat over the smooth, unmarked skin. The bruising has completely healed, and he feels like he’s in tip-top shape. With a sigh, he puts on his spare clothes as his bloodied work outfit tumbles in a washer. It’s like a magic wand’s been waved over him. Without his heavy coat and steel toed boots, his slumped posture in street clothes makes him look like a normal teen. He adjusts the collar of his hood and makes a surprised murmur as he takes a good look at himself in the mirror. It’s been awhile since Keith last saw him in casual clothes, ever since the whole reconditioning incident at least. It probably won’t hurt to visit in normal clothes again, and he wonders if Keith will find something like that interesting.

Things like that aren’t that important though, and he pushes the thought aside as he peeks at the time on the washing machine. The clothes still need to be dried, so there’s ample time for him to head out for Hunk and Pidge’s lab. The doors slide open before Lance is even in front of it, and he barges in, once more stopping a stack of papers and equipment from collapsing.

“Hunk, Pidge! Let’s go somewhere!” Lance yells, fighting the stack with a few casual holster-taps from his revolver.

Pidge peeks up from her computer, her face bleached by the glow of the screen, and her expression decidedly unamused.

“What?”

Hunk immediately stops tinkering with his mice, and he jumps to his feet.

“Oh, seriously?! It’s been ages! Where? There? _There_? Or theeeeeere?”

“Theeeeeeere.”

“Jeez, it’s really been forever then!”

“Right?!”

Lance  finally finishes propping up the stack with a random machine, and he flash-steps over. The two start chatting up, all while Pidge winces as she sees Lance vanish over all the important cords in the room.

“Gosh, no flash-stepping, remember?! Also, what the hell are you guys talking about?”

“Pidgeon, how do you feel about the beach tomorrow?”

“I burn.”

“Vintage styled buildings? Even if they’re kinda old and give off a sorta creepy staged feeling sometimes?”

“Acceptable.”

“Awesome food?”

“I’m down.”

“Cool, then meet us here with a bag tomorrow at five AM!”

Pidge’s jaw drops, and she snaps towards Hunk.

“Did Lance finally lose it?”

“Nope. The flight’s just really long,” he says with a laugh, as if it’s completely fine that none of them are sleeping tonight.

“Flight? Oh… Oh my god. Just go without me.”

“C’mon, please?”

Hunk joins in, and Pidge scuttles away – if she could hiss, she totally would in this moment. Hunk’s bright, beaming eyes make her shield her own face. The moment she looks too long, she’s a goner.

“No, nooooooo! You can’t make me!”

“C’mon Pidgeon! It’s for something important!” Lance chimes in.

“You can’t do shit!” Pidge snaps, firmly looking away, “you and I both know it’s all down to Hunk!”

“Pidge, pleeeeaase,” Hunk begs, jumping around and behind her palm. Pidge shrieks and dodges, but Hunk loops around the back. Still, Pidge manages to avoid his killer stare. Hunk keeps up his attack, until Pidge lets out a rowdy laugh, and the two burst into uncontrollable giggles trying to dodge and outsmart each other.

“Fine, uncle, uncle!” she screeches with laughter, taking off her glasses to wipe at her eyes. “What’s the weather like?”

Lance and Hunk high-five, and now she’s actually sort of glad she gave in, since everyone looks so happy right now.

“Warm and humid.”

“Gotcha.”

 

The sun isn’t even out while she waits for the other two. She and Hunk spent most of the night beefing up the security in their lab, and as she waits there, she sneers at the dark sky.

“Oh god why,” she mutters to herself. The regret is already setting in, and she starts glaring at everyone who passes her by, even if they’re all taller than her by a good foot or two.

“Hey Pidgeon! Where’s Hunk?”

“Dunno. Dead?”

“Should we check on him or-“

“I’m… I’m here.”

Hunk looks like he’s crawling along the wall, and slumps in front of the two.

“Dude… I forgot just how…”Hunk yawns and blinks blearily, “I forgot how early it was.”

“Alright then, let’s go!”

The plane ride is oddly civilian, and while Hunk sleeps, for Pidge it’s already a lost cause. Once she’s up she’s up, no two ways about it.

“Care to tell me exactly what the hell is going on?” she whispers to Lance, as the other passengers are dozing off. Lance presses his lips together, and she rolls her eyes, mentally sorting through the list of languages that they both know, before settling on some good old-fashioned German. Lance scowls and replies, though he’s definitely rusty. Of course she picks the one language that he hasn’t really used in some time.

 _Why are we on this damned plane so damn early?_ Pidge asks, resisting the urge to snap. Lance pauses, mulling over what to say, before replying simply and straightforwardly.

_My family._

Pidge’s jaw drops, but she quickly hides her surprise by pausing to pretend and look at her nails.

_I thought you were-_

_Orphan? My situation is strange. You and Hunk are special too._

_Because we are working for the cover companies. That’s what I tell mom, and what Hunk tells his family._

Lance looks away, and that’s the end of that conversation. Pidge grudgingly backs off, but not without the final say.

“You better tell me everything once this is all done,” she murmurs under her breath.

“Totally, Pidgeon.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

 

The place is still packed with a healthy amount of tourists, even for it not being the height of the holiday season yet, and on the beach in the distance, Pidge can see that it’s comfortably full. Hunk is already walking in one direction, a familiar destination in mind.

“Today’s the weekend right? So they should be having brunch right about now!”

“Right. C’mon Pidgeon.”

Hunk seems his usual, cheery self, but his smile isn’t as big as it usually is. When Lance gestures for her to follow, his smooth movements seem to have gone stiff in her eyes, limbs unevenly progressing forwards, but she says nothing.

She nods and follows, rolling the beads on a bracelet offhandedly.

They eventually stop at a small café, opposite to a more bustling restaurant, where Lance grabs the outdoor seating, their table nicely tucked behind a small wrought-iron fence that encircles the front. Plants with large, dark green leaves and small flowers fill the planters around the tables, but the wait staff flit through them with ease. Their waitress has a very sweet smile, Pidge realizes. Right as she’s about to leave and get their drink orders, Lance speaks up.

“Ah, wait. For you.”

The girl looks at Lance curiously, when he uses a bit of sleight of hand to procure an origami flower from behind her ear. He hands it over with a dashing smile, and the waitress looks genuinely surprised and charmed as she accepts the flower with pink cheeks. Lance _almost_ has it.

“I bet it won’t be long before out love blossoms as well.”

Pidge and Hunk burst out into laughter, and the spell is broken as the waitress joins in as well. Lance jerks back, sheepishly refusing to make eye contact as the waitress finishes chuckling, and tells them that she’ll be back in a bit.

“Oh man, I missed this!” Hunk snorts, not bothering to stop at all for his friend’s sake.

Meanwhile, Pidge looks at Lance with such pity and amusement that he starts scooting back his chair inch by inch, rubbing at his mouth, as if it’ll somehow hide the deep, garnet flush spreading all over his face.

“Whaddya think, Hunk?” Pidge begins, “Out of all I’ve heard so far, I’d give that… a rather disappointing three. C’mon Lance, don’t let us down! I’ve heard more embarrassing shit from you before!”

“Ohhhh, Pidge is so right! Don’t you remember last year, when we all went to that restaurant with super-sized food? You told the waiter that-!”

“Hey, that was a perfectly valid pick-up for the situation! A little more-”

“Oh _hell_ no, it was _not_ ,” Pidge interrupts.

“-and I’m _sure_ I could’ve gotten a number!”

Hunk can only shrug at them both, and he smiles as Lance sulks and hides behind his menu.

“It’s been awhile since you were able to come out with us and relax, right? It’s always nice to see you unwind – at least enough to flirt, pfft!”

“C’mon Hunk…”

“You do realize that the others at HQ always ask us about your latest attempts, right? It would be almost treason not to share information with fellow Garrison members, so I always tell them.”

“Pidgeon, no…”

The waitress comes back, the paper flower (folded from the remains of a flyer they got from the airport, Pidge realizes) tucked into the pocket of her apron. Lance’s eyes widen, and Hunk cuts in before Pidge can.

“Don’t get your hopes too high, buddy,” Hunk says, his tone so kindly that Lance pouts a bit more than usual.

She starts placing down their drinks from the tray in her hand, trying not to laugh at Hunk’s comment.

“The iced coffee for you, miss.”

“Thanks!”

Ice cubes clink gently in the glass, and Pidge grins as she swirls the striped straw in the creamy liquid.

“The café con leche for you.”

“Thank you very much,” Hunk says, gratefully accepting the cup.

“And the iced tea for you.”

“Thank you,” Lance murmurs, polite enough to at least look at her with a embarrassed smile as she places down the glass.

“Ready to order?”

Lance pats Hunk on the shoulder.

“Go for it, man.”

“Pidge, you don’t mind?”

“Nah, I trust you.”

“Alright then! Let’s see, can we have, a side of tostada, the boiled yucca, three sandwiches, the mixed fruit bowl, and… the garlic knots, please. Thank you very much!”

The waitress scribbles down everything in one go, and by the time she takes back the menus, Lance is beaming again.

“Oh man, I totally forgot how long it’s been since I had those garlic knots!” Lance croons, eyes closed in bliss, all while Hunk sits back, obviously proud of himself.

“Have to admit, those do sound really good right now. Besides that crappy plane meal, I haven’t eaten anything,” Pidge says.

She sighs and props her chin on her hands, glancing over at the restaurant on the other side. This café isn’t too shabby either, but it’s obvious that the other place is more popular. Yet another family strolls up to the restaurant, complete with two little ones in tow.

“Hey, Lance, why didn’t we-,”

“They’re here.”

Pidge frowns, and she looks back to see something very strange. Lance’s eyes are narrowed as he watches the family, like how they usually are whenever he’s focused on something. What’s odd is that at the same time his gaze is very soft and kind – a direct contrast to the cold and merciless stare that’s usually paired with this focus. This face is contradictory and unfamiliar, and Pidge bites down on her straw as she takes another sip of her coffee, hoping it’ll calm the sudden flip in her stomach.

She looks back at the family. The waiter greets them warmly and leads them to a large, outdoor table that looks like it barely fits everyone. Everyone is smiling and laughing though, and as she watches their faces, the straw slips from her lips. One of the women there has those strange, blue-black eyes that Lance has, and the shape of her skull and face is definitely familiar, while another one has a tall, lanky body structure, and then there is a man there with a crooked smile that’s slightly higher on the left, _just like Lance_ -

“Lance? Just, how is this… No, how does this even happen? Your family. That’s your family, isn’t it?”

“Your garlic knots!”

The waitress sets down a platter of what looks like a mound of small rolls flecked with scallions and covered in grated cheese and drizzle of some kind of sauce, with a small bowl of some sort of sauce on the side. Hunk and Lance thank her and she leaves.

“They don’t remember me anymore. Nowadays, I’m just a mysterious benefactor who sends them checks in the mail,” Lance coolly says. “Well, what else do you notice, Pidgeon?”

Pidge takes a deep breath of the cool, salt-tinged air, warmed by sunlight. It calms her nerves, and she adjusts her glasses. Taking back control, she casually takes one of the knots and rips it in half, releasing a puff of steam into the air.

“Let’s see, there’s at least four agents there in that restaurant with them. You can tell since their posture is a bit stiff from their training, one of those women is wearing the stun ring that Hunk and I developed, and you can catch the Garrison gear the others are carrying if you look close enough.”

The tech in her glasses shuts back down, and she leans back in her chair as the AR format being projected into the lenses flickers out.  She pops one of the knot halves into her mouth, immediately making a happy utterance as she swears the bread’s somehow melting in her mouth, all buttery and garlicky.

“By the way,” she mumbles, covering her mouth as she chews, “whatever’s happening right now is a bit fucked up, in my opinion.”

“Oh, definitely,” Lance answers, not even bothering to argue as he grabs at the knots and dips them in sauce. “Basically nothing will happen to them if I keep doing my job, and an added bonus is that they get money every month. They were able to move here in the beginning because of my stipend for them.”

“How noble.”

“Not really. I also wanted to get the fuck out.”

“Huh. By the way, these are really good.”

“Right?!”

“Guys, save some space for the other stuff,” Hunk warns, “also, don’t chew with your mouth full, Lance.”

“Whoops!”

 

The three of them lean back, sipping at what remains of their drinks. Hunk rubs his belly, content at the empty plates in front of them.

“Soooo, we’re just gonna stalk your family?” Pidge asks.

“Mm, nah, the guards have that covered. Besides, this is closest I’d risk getting near them. There’s no telling what could trigger a memory relapse. We’re just going to check in, then chill for the rest of today.”

Pidge stretches her neck, feeling and hearing it crack noisily. It’s obvious that Lance has dragged Hunk along on this trip before. As for her, she doesn’t know whether to feel flattered for being invited, or to be horrified at what’s happening just across the street. Grimacing, she sighs and grabs one of the leftover knots. There’s still coding on the mice to be done back at the lab, but if she’s here she might as well enjoy herself. They pay the bill and leave, and as they do, one of the men at the restaurant brushes back his hair, two fingers slightly less bent than the others. Lance touches two fingers to his mouth, in a way that’s almost as if he thinking about something. Five minutes later, as they go down a tourist-oriented street, the man catches up to them.

“You’re back.”

“Nice to see ya again, Harrison. How’s everyone?”

“Good. They’re good people,” he replies, as if that explains everything.

Apparently Lance is able to dissect out all the extra meaning, and he smiles fondly at Harrison.

“I see… Well, thanks! As usual, take care of them.”

“Understood.”

The man stoically looks down at the shorter boy.

Lance has gotten taller, but his eyes look strange. Not as dark as before, but not as bright as the others have told him they are.

In a moment of spontaneity, he ruffles Lance’s hair.

“Wuh- Harrison?!”

Hunk bursts out into another peal of laughter, while Pidge observes quietly. As usual, Lance seems to the be the baby of the Garrison forces.

“A-anyway, thanks for everything!”

“Yes. It’s been awhile since you last came. Come over more often.”

With those words, Harrison disappears back into the crowds. Lance can only stare into the empty space, eyes wide and lips parted.

“I swear that’s the most I’ve ever heard him speak.”

Pidge is already sending a photo out, and hops a bit closer to Hunk, showing him the image.

“Yeah, it looks pretty good.”

“Nice.”

“Wait, what the hell are you two doing?!”

Lance rushes over, when he freezes and his head snaps up.

“We gotta go.”

Pidge looks back, just in time to see Lance’s family laughing and strolling down the promenade as well. Lance grabs her and Hunk’s hands and sprints forward. Barely a minute in, and she can feel the sweat streaming down her skin and her throat dry and burning.

“Fuck! Fuck, hah, Lance! Lance, I’m no-!”

In response, Lance literally yanks her up into the air by the arm, grabs her around the waist, then keeps running with her firmly tucked under his arm like a bundle. Pidge goes limp, dumbly registering the ground moving even faster underneath her body.

“Sorry, but thing’s would probably get really bad if Lance was seen,” Hunk apologizes, somehow managing to keep up with Lance’s pace, though by the sweat beading on his forehead, he isn’t doing too hot either.

“Then what the hell was the Harrison guy doing meeting you here?!” Pidge shrieks.

“They almost _never_ go to the promenade right after eating, or brunch usually takes a bit longer!” Lance cries, and he doesn’t stop until they’re almost at another beach, all three of them sweaty and tired. Pidge squirms out of Lance’s arm, and she looks out at the shore, almost overrun by tourists. The promenade is just a blotch in the distance, and Hunk has literally collapsed onto the sandy asphalt of the road.

“Sorry buddy, you alright?” Lance asks, kneeling down by his friend.

“Yeah, just-just give me a breather. Or like, five.”

“Good enough, I guess.”

Pidge frowns at the band of sweat wrapping around the waist of her blouse, and she looks up at Lance, who still seems anxious and rolls from one heel to the other in his crouching position. Pausing, she takes a second to think before settling on a course of action.

“Our flight back is tonight, right?”

“Yes?”

“Well, this sunscreen and our little two mile run is making me feel gross. So, first let’s go chill in the ocean, then I’m totally gonna get new clothes, ‘kay?”

“Uh, I… I guess?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Hunk mumbles, wriggling up into something that might barely be passed for sitting. He and Pidge are both smiling though, and it seems to soothe Lance’s nerves. Whenever Lance gets stressed, oddly enough it’s a sense of structure that helps him out the most – all three of them know that. He grumbles and wipes at his sweat, before beaming at them.

“It’s settled then! Race ya’ to the beach!”

“Hell no!”

“Hell no.”

After they shove their things into a beachside locker, the three of them rush into the ocean, to the surprise of some of the other bikini and swimsuit-clad guests. The ocean waters are nice and cool, and Pidge rushes in, laughing. She keeps on wading in until the water’s up to her waist, and it’s as if she dances about, keeping her hat fully pulled down. There will be hell to pay if she gets sunburned. Meanwhile Lance and Hunk are diving in as well, fully clothed too.

“Don’t you dare leave me behind!” she snaps as they wade further out, and she’s left behind treading water.

“Oh, sorry!” Hunk calls. He drags Lance back by the collar, the boy squirming, before Lance suddenly loosens his body and holds his nose.

“Heads up!”

“Huh?!”

From her spot, Pidge watches in shock as a looming wave literally flips Lance over and slams Hunk down. The wave keeps traveling, and she shrieks as trips back in the water, holding her breath and pinching her nose just in time, right before she tumbles over her head in the wave, before it spits her out closer to the beach. She sits there, staring ahead and still clutching her sopping wet hat in one hand. Lance emerges from the water, howling with laughter, and runs over, the strength of his legs cutting through the water.

“Wait, wait, Hunk!”

Lance spins around and catches Hunk slowly wading back, brushing sand off his face and hair, and he goes to help, even if he can’t stop laughing the whole time. Sighing, she sits back and lets the water roll over her hands and legs, not caring about how heavy her hat feels as she puts it on. It droops down and flops over her face. 

 

Their hair is somewhat dry by the time they’re back on the plane, and Hunk mumbles something about how he hopes their wet clothes don’t soak through their bags and get the luggage compartment wet.

“We gotta get some work done when we get back,” Pidge says.

“Sure thing. Lance, what’re you gonna do?”

Lance settles back, letting his body slump in the seat.

“Go home. Sleep, I guess? Really needed today, that’s for sure.”

Hunk smiles and lightly hits Lance on the shoulder.

“Anytime, bud. Tell us when your next free day is.”

“And next time, the less outdoorsy stuff the better,” Pidge adds.

Lance nods absentmindedly, blindly agreeing to everything as he peeks out the window. Everything in the sky is dark blue after the sun has just dipped below the horizon. All blue, blue, and more blue. Grumbling, he loosens his seatbelt and nestles his head into the crook of Hunk’s neck.

“Gonna sleep.”

“Sure.”

To their surprise, Lance starts to softly snore a half-hour later. Hunk sees something flitting behind Pidge’s eyes when she looks over, and he carefully adjusts himself in his seat without stirring Lance.

“I’m almost done with the bodies of the mice. How’s the coding going?”

“Fine. Less fuss than I expected. Animal AI is surprisingly fun.”

“Cool.”

Hunk pauses to rub Lance’s shoulder reassuringly, and Lance mutters something incoherent and presses himself in closer.

“Pidge, I’m really glad you’re our friend. For awhile, Lance and I were kinda on our own.”

“I’m not sure what’d I’d do if I was stuck alone in that place either, so I’m glad too.”

The two of them lapse into silence, but eventually Hunk pulls out his phone to discreetly type something onto the screen.

 

_Haven’t really told anyone, but… about a year ago, he wanted to leave._

 

Pidge’s eyes widen, and she looks at Hunk in shock.

“I mean, a plane probably isn’t the best time to talk about something like this, but I felt like you should probably-“

“Why didn’t he?”

Hunk muses over it a few minutes, then whispers to her after taking a deep breath, his face lost in thought.

“One. He didn’t want to ditch me.”

Lance sleeps on.

“Two, you appeared.”

It’s enough to put even a genius like Pidge at pause for a moment. What exactly about her and Hunk stopped Lance from getting himself killed getting out of his terrible job?

“What?”

“We weren’t in this alone anymore,” Hunk explains, “not to mention, your tech just made it easier to just, _breathe_ , y’know? We didn’t have to speak in code and whisper every little thing to each other whenever things got rough.”

“I… I didn’t know that.”

“Pidge. Both of us, we’re so grateful you’re with us,” Hunk whispers.

There’s a soft, warm smile on his face that’s absolutely contagious, and Pidge slightly covers her mouth.

“I… You know I hate this sappy stuff, but I’m super glad too,” she murmurs back, feeling her cheeks heat up. “I was obsessed when I _finally_ found a lead. It didn’t even matter if I wrecked myself, since it’d all be worth it in the end. We’d be one whole, happy family again.”

She pauses to take off her glasses, fiddling with the frames as she feels the thin metal slightly bend under her slim fingers.

“Then I got paired to work with you, and of course that meant meeting Lance since you two were already joined at the hip back then and…” she lets her voice trail off, wondering how to go on. Maybe she’s just imagining that tickle in her throat, or that strain in her voice.

“I guess I calmed down,” she says, satisfied enough with that choice of words. “Remember when Lance stole the coffee-maker? Back then, mom was a husk – maybe she still is. She was just out of it for so long that it just slipped past her when I literally wouldn’t sleep for days, and when I finally became the Green no one gave a shit about whether I was taking care of myself, but then you guys came along. You kept talking to me, no matter how bitchy I was being in the beginning, your food was awesome, and-and then in comes Lance one day to steal our fucking _coffee-maker_. I was ready to kill him, but he just laughed that dumb idiot-laugh of his and joked that I was gonna be a midget forever if I kept drinking coffee and not sleeping or eating.”

She can’t stop now – the words are spilling faster from her lips and brain then she can stop them, and even though Hunk is staring at her now, and Lance is also awake and watching her, mouth agape, she just can’t stop talking.

“And I dunno. I just… My brain sparked out for a moment. It’s never done that before. I just stopped and thought, ‘shit, these two dumbasses are _worried_ about me’, and after that you guys kept encouraging me to eat, to sleep, to talk with you guys about everything, even though I know now that you guys were dealing with your own shit and -” she pauses as her vision blurs, and she quickly finishes her sentence looking down at her feet, avoiding eye contact with everyone around.

“Anyways,  long story short, I’m glad you guys are my friends too.”

“PIDGEON!”

“PIDGE!”

Hunk and Lance scream her name, and she notices now that both Hunk and Lance are also blubbering. Her jaw drops, and it opens and closes wordlessly as her thoughts hit a brick wall.  Before she can even complain or yell at them for screaming, Hunk envelops them both in a suffocating hug. Wrapped in a cocoon of arms, Pidge allows herself just the tiniest bit of selfishness and she relaxes in the embrace, blubbering and complaining at the other two the whole time, all while Hunk and Lance keep talking nonstop about how much they love her. Even if her family is suffering right now, she can’t help but indulge in the warmth surrounding her and filling her chest.

“Love ya guys too,” she mutters under her breath, face and ears scarlet-colored, hoping that they don’t hear the pure embarrassment coming from her.

All around them the passengers are staring, but the three of them lose all sense of privacy and politeness and act as loudly and over the top as they want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Family can be three tired, scared, and stressed kids standing up against a shadowy secret organization; fight me if you think otherwise.   
> ...  
> I just really wanted to make our Garrison trio steel-forged buddies after all that they've done during their time together.
> 
> Oh yeah and about the cult in the beginning of the chapter; the people being "prepared" are supposed to be sacrifices for whatever "thing" that the cult worships. The more that's cut away (in a very specific way no less), the higher quality the sacrifice. The only issue is that the "thing" that they sacrifice to gets hungry pretty damn fast. That's why there's different qualities of sacrifices. The higher quality ones keep the thing calm and cooperative for longer, but because those ones take longer to prepare, lower quality sacrifices are given in-between.   
> When Lance attacked, they needed more fodder for the thing than just the boy, hence why they called Lance a "holdover".


	11. Thank You Very Much. You Remind Me of Shiro.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith experiences some friendship for the first time and doesn't know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT DEAD (YET) HELLS YEAAAAA  
> Anyways, sorry for such a late chapter, everything's just been kinda crazy lately...

Glass is littered all over the floor, glinting and sparkling beautifully under the warm afternoon sun. Keith stands at the other end of the kitchen, breathing hard, a hand still slightly outstretched from hurling the cup at the wall. With his other he clutches his phone. The email on the screen is long and winding, but it’s obvious what the investigator is reluctant to spit out.

A dead end.

Deep down, he knew that it was going to end this way. After all, how could spinning a possible sighting into a huge search even possibly end well?

Still, Keith bet on it. There had been nothing for so long that he was now desperate for anything. He pinned his hopes onto a thin, frayed thread.

And he had been disappointed.

The phone drops to the ground with a clatter, and Keith leans back against the wall to slide to the ground, covering his face.

“Shiro.”

As if that would work.

“Shiro, I lov-!” Keith chokes on the words.

As if _that_ would work.

A deep sigh escapes from his throat, and eventually he looks up. The glass is still shining, and he needs to clean it up. As he tries to crawl up though, his legs seem to lose more and more strength.

The whole attempt ends in nothing but splayed legs and a slouched spine.

 

“Holy shit! I smell cookies!” Lance screeches the moment he runs inside the lab, glancing about.

“Like a dog,” Pidge snickers. She bites off a piece of a pale colored cookie flecked with bits of black.

“Shush! What are they? Vanilla? No, it smells like… vanilla, honey, and… Tea!”

Lance cuts Pidge off so sharply that she can only gape as Lance flash-steps across the room, as if to spite her for the millionth time about the cables. Meanwhile Hunk laughs and holds out a plate towards his friend.

“Figured it’s been a while since I baked anything, and I also  felt like trying out this tea-infused sugar cookie idea that I’ve been putting off for too long. Bagged a few for you take to Keith.”

“Shoot, thanks bud,” Lance mumbles between a mouthful of cookies, still trying to grab some more while Hunk skillfully tries to keep them out of Lance’s hands. As always, Lance is far faster, and he grabs a handful of cookies.

“Perfect as always,” Lance hums happily, pausing to catch the crumbs falling from his mouth.

“Eat them all and you’ll regret it,” Pidge calls from the other side of the room. “Also, take a look at our new friend.”

“New ‘friend’?”

Something squeaks at his heel, and Lance glances down, before dropping down with a big, dopey smile on his face.

“Holy shit! You finished the mouse! It’s so cute!”

The off-yellow mouse is on the larger size, but it squeaks cutely and he can’t help but lean down and give it scratch under the chin. It squeaks happily and nuzzles his palm.

“Woah, you coded something like that in, Pidgeon?! And the ways it moves – it looks so real, Hunk!”

The genius straightens up in her throne, despite the sorry state of the whole lab, and she spins around proudly.

“What you’re seeing is probably a breakthrough in intelligent animal AI, _and_ it’s also got some rudimentary self-learning properties! Man, I’d probably be winning so many grants for this if it went public,” she rambles, a glow in her eyes.

“That’s… pretty damn amazing Pidgeon.”

“Keep the praise coming please!”

Hunk laughs along with all of them, albeit a bit sheepishly, and he coaxes over the mouse with a click of the tongue.

“The AI is definitely on the next level. Pidgeon and I decided on a more rounded ‘personality’ for this buddy,” he explains, letting it run up his arm and over his shoulders.

“We’re hoping to create different types of mice for different situations,” he continues, “such as ones that might be more aggressive or sneaky, so that means that later models might have more stream-lined bodies. Technically number one here is meant to be a balanced sort of test-model, so they’re a bit on the bulkier side.”

The entire time, the mouse is curiously observing and exploring Hunk’s outfit and his desk, nimbly avoiding small tools and machinery with superhuman levels of grace. At some point, Lance crawls over to the desk to watch, resting his chin on the edge.

“Dude. Have I ever mentioned how you’re a freaking genius?”

Hunk jokingly falls over Lance’s slumped back, warm and full of good cheer, wearing a big smile that’s all crinkled eyebrows and glowing eyes and absolutely one-hundred percent Hunk.

“All the time!”

“Dorks,” Pidge chuckles, tiptoeing over the wires over to them.

As she does, Lance perks up slightly, listening to the sound of her footsteps.

“Pidgeon, are you barefoot? You sure about that?”

“You’re a worry-wart, you know that? The last time I tripped was _last year_! ‘Sides – the weather’s getting really warm.”

She safely scurries over, scratching the top of the mouse’s head, looking at the two of them. She and Hunk are both in t-shirts and shorts, and she glances for a moment at Lance’s work outfit, which still looks so heavy and warm, despite all the work that they put into it.

“Oh, yeah, two things me and Hunk wanted to talk with you about.”

“Oh crap, I almost forgot, huh?” Hunk mumbles.

“You did pull a couple all-nighters this week…” Pidge mumbles under her breath.

“I heard that!”

Pidge and Hunk stiffen as Lance goes into another small lecture about all-nighters, all as he’s smushed under Hunk.

“Says the guy who once didn’t sleep for two days straight following a convoy through a goddamn jungle!” Pidge argues back, snickering as Lance abruptly shuts up.

“Anyways!” she continues, “One: you get to name the mouse.”

“Really?!”

Hunk nods blithely, and Lance can feel the movement on his back.

“Yep. Congrats,” he says.

“Two! We’d rather not make a new bodysuit, since it’s pretty amazing, and there’s actually a decent amount of protection in it. For your outer clothes though, do you want anything less hot?”

“I’m worried that you’re gonna get heatstroke or something, buddy,” Hunk adds, finally sitting up. “I have some ideas, but the defense will definitely go down. Do you even want something more comfortable with a trade-off like that?”

The mouse has decided to run onto Lance’s head, and he sits still, for its sake.

“Oh, thanks for asking. Um, if you guys don’t mind, could you make something like that, but not for work? Something I wouldn’t mind wearing most days, you know, so I can avoid something like ‘this’ again?”

He raises his clothed arm, but they all know that underneath is still the scar from a thin, sharp knife.

“A jacket then,” Hunk decides, “and not too flashy, right?”

Pidge holds her chin, thinking of styles.

“We should try to make it something that looks versatile and won’t fall out of fashion that soon. Hm, if we wanna keep it light too, then it might be better to focus on the fabric? That’s your area of expertise then, Hunk.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t 3-D print some extra things that we could add to it, with extra functions,” Hunk says,

They easily fall into a rapport, and Lance sits back and watches happily, cradling the mouse in his hands.

“Well, no point in talking to them right now,” he says to the mouse, holding it in front of his face. It rests patiently, looking up at Lance with gem-like eyes.

“Well then, I’m not the best at names, but since your fur’s has a nice yellow and green color… How about…  Rose?”

Rose walks around in his palm for a moment, but eventually seems to respond to the new name.

“Anyways, you have some pretty awesome creators, Rose,” Lance says, holding the mouse up again to get a better view of Hunk and Pidge’s discussion. Rose stares, then turns around and nods at Lance.

Lance’s jaw drops, and for a moment all he can do is splutter out nonsense.

“P-Pidgeon! Hunk! Rose just – Rose just nodded at me!”

The two are snapped out of their focus, and Pidge leans in.

“Yeah? They’re supposed to respond to human speech.”

“They’re definitely smarter than your average mouse after all, you know? Though, I can understand if you look a bit stunned, since they’re so realistic,” Hunk says with a bit of a guilty smile.

“N-no, but why would you code in something like-?!”

Lance’s words break up, and Pidge cuts him off smoothly.

“Anyways, ‘Rose’? This mouse is yellow and green, not red. So why’d you name ‘em Rose?”

“…It kinda just popped in my head,” Lance answers, giving up.

As he leaves, carrying the bag of cookies in one hand, he swears he sees the mouse flash him some sort of knowing look.

 

“Keith! Keith, ya’ in there?! I brought a treat!”

Lance raps his knuckles on the door just a bit harder, dressed in normal clothes with the bag of cookies scrunching up in his hands. Keith stirs at the noise. Blinking a few times, he blearily wipes the sleep from his eyes, sluggishly looking up.

The million-dollar question for today is this: can he deal with Lance right now?

To Keith’s relief, the answer is an overwhelmingly loud and resounding _no_.

He doesn’t feel like dealing with Lance’s upbeat and erratic antics, or dull and melancholic mood swings. He doesn’t want to deal with Lance innocently asking heavy, strange things with a certain type of bravery that Keith is sure that he’s never had. He can’t deal with Lance’s soft and brash smiles. He can’t deal with Lance’s suffocating concern and care.

He can’t deal.

So he stays quiet.

“Keith!” Lance yells more forcefully, switching to banging his fists on the wood. Frowning, Lance crouches and presses his ear to the door for a few seconds. With a dark red face, he leans low to the ground and gently sniffs the air wafting through the threshold.

“Keith! Open the frickin’ door! I know you’re in there! I can sm-catch – catch your scent!”

“The _fuck_?!”

Keith’s jaw drops, and he stares at the door incredulously, before catching himself and settling back down to the floor. Lance jiggles the door handle for good measure, mumbling a few things under his breath. The cookies from Hunk are still weighing heavily in his hand, and he starts pacing back down the hall. He walks past the stairs, looking for something more discreet, and less heavily secured than Keith’s apartment.

“Bingo.”

A quick pick of a lock, and he’s on his way to the roof access. His steps echo in a cramped stairwell that only gives him a centimeter of leeway on each side, and the sound of his boots on concrete seem to get louder and louder, bringing up uncomfortable memories. This discomfort has happened before, but it always got a little better. Also, he thought he managed to scrape away this time unscathed, in his head at least.

Seems like he was so, so wrong.

A mother’s voice flits through his ears, full of hate and desperation, but also gurgling with blood underneath. The bubbling blood gets louder and louder until it’s roaring in his ears, up and beyond his limits. Lance’s stomach clenches up, and he collapses onto the steps, gasping and trying to breathe deeply. Crying babies are buzzing in his ears. He swears that if he looks behind him he’ll see a woman bleeding out on the ground. The walls are too close – that’s bad and good; good because that means he can’t get ambushed but badbadbad since he can’t breathe and there’s a dying mother here and the smell of blood is _overpowering_ , stronger even than the cookies-

Wait.

Cookies.

Lance’s eyes snap open, and he tenses up on the stairs, shivers wracking his body while sweat drips down his forehead. He’s holding Hunk’s cookies in his hand. He needs to get them to Keith. To get to Keith he needs to get to the roof. To get to the roof, he has to go through this tiny, echo-y staircase, but it’s not the one in that target’s home. At the end of it all won’t be two dead parents and a dead baby. It’ll be Keith – probably sulking, but at the very least a friend.

His breathing is still taking time to slow, and he starts running his thumb over the surface of his pendant after trying to order his thoughts, focusing on how the smooth surface slides under the finger, and he thinks about Rowan, who oddly smelled like sunshine and plants. Rowan hugging him and worriedly tending to his wounds, and how once Lance hit his teens he started to refuse to go around in public with Rowan unless the man dressed like a normal human being. He remembers how being around Rowan feels like home.

Lance makes sure to not dwell for too long, or else he’ll remember Rowan’s blood-soaked hands sliding down his face, but it’s alright. His breathing is level now, the sweat and chills have stopped, and he quickly crawls up. Keith’s got another thing coming if he thinks Lance will just give up like this.

He flings open the door to the roof and marches out, sighing as the warm night air wraps around him comfortingly. Looking to his left, he cheers and rushes over, knocking as hard as he dares on a glass pane. Keith hasn’t closed one of those big, heavy and wooden shutters. Keith is slouched on the floor, and as he flips his head up to look at Lance, banging on the window so eagerly like a puppy, he scowls and flips Lance off. Lance immediately stops, then reaches behind his back. Out comes an easily concealed pistol – smaller than his revolver, but no less deadly, and the butt of it is just as sturdy as anything else. He places the butt of the gun against the glass, then raises his arm in a perfect arc up, just as Keith’s face twists up with horror.

“Wait!” he screeches, “Waitwaitwait! I can’t afford repairs right now you asshole!”

Charmingly, Lance tilts his head to the side with a beautiful, shit-eating grin, and leans down onto the glass.

“Open up then, ya’ dumb piece of angst!” he calls, his voice muffled by the glass.

Keith swears he hears his teeth crack as he suddenly clenches them, before he jumps to his feet and marches forward.

“Fine then, I’ll open it,” he snarls, popping the latch.

“Finally!” Lance complains. “How long will you – w-wait! No!”

The windows are flung open, and before even _Lance_ can react, he falls straight down and onto Keith.

Keith yelps as the two of them hit the ground, where Keith immediately gives himself a mental kick in the ass for not thinking things out. Thank god Lance isn’t that heavy.

Wait.

Isn’t Lance… sort of straddling him right now?

Groaning, Lance raises his head from Keith’s chest, looking at his still outstretched arm.

“Thank god, the cookies…!” he says, beaming, before slumping back down onto Keith. Keith can feel Lance’s stomach pressing against his abdomen, and as a whole, Lance’s body feels cool and refreshing to the touch; a sort of balm against the warm air that he’s been stewing in this whole time. The open window also lets in a gust of new air, and it’s as if his apartment has been remade.

For a moment, he didn’t think a thing about Shiro.

Right now, Keith just has a weird friend nestled against him, their legs tangled up, and as fucking weird as it is to admit, it’s not the worst he’s ever had to deal with.

“Hm? Shit, lemme get off of you. Plus, _look at these cookies_! Hunk made ‘em, so you _have_ to try one!”

Lance scrambles off, looking unperturbed for someone who just accidentally cuddled their friend, and he offers Keith a hand.

“Sorry, you okay? Uh, your face is kinda red. Did I piss you off that badly?”

Red?

Keith rubs at his cheeks, and what do you know? They feel warm to the touch.

He shakes his head and gets up by himself, not looking at Lance. He starts thinking about what to say, but the other boy beats him to the punch.

“Bad day? You don’t need to tell me anything if you don’t want to. In fact, you don’t ever need to tell me if that’ll make things easier. Also-,” he presses the bag of cookies into Keith’s chest, “-I know that no matter how shitty things feel, Hunk’s stuff always makes things seem a little better.”

Keith takes the bag in his hands, and before he can say anything else, Lance vanishes and reappears near the entrance to turn on the lights. The bulbs overhead flicker on. Suddenly Keith is no longer alone, and he’s back in a warm place.

No one will ever understand him as well as Shiro, but… Lance isn’t bad at dealing with Keith’s moods and feelings. He won’t prod, won’t dig in through wounds, and he asks for nothing in exchange for letting Keith keep his silence.

“Lance!”

Lance turns around, curious. His eyes don’t look as inky now, compared to before. They’re a dark, soothing shade of blue.

Actually, what is he even going to say?

‘Thank you’?

‘Thank you so much’?

‘You’re so nice’?

‘You seem a bit like Shiro right now’?

It’s all so lame, lame, and _lame_.

“Be… Be careful of the glass,” Keith eventually mutters, his voice dying out towards the end.

“Wha – glass? Oh, oh my god! You gotta clean that shit up, you know?!”

Keith stares at the bag in his hands. The cookies do look like amazing, perfectly shaped, cream-colored discs with flecks of brown. The edges are cocoa-colored, and a few shades darker than the body of the cookie. Lance is busily tidying up the glass, and Keith slumps onto the couch, where he absentmindedly takes a bite out of a cookie. He chews it up, wondering what’s so amazing about Hunk’s culinary skills, when the taste actually _hits_ him, like a brick to the tongue.

The insides aren’t warm anymore, but the texture is still delectably soft and fluffy, melting in his mouth more and more with every passing second. The sweetness is full-bodied like that of a cake, but not overpowering, and it all ends on a light, earl grey note that lingers _just_ long enough.

With a newfound sense of wonder, Keith stares at the cookie in his hands.

This is no ordinary cookie. It’s the freaking food of the _gods_.

He wolfs down the rest and starts going through the bag at a breakneck pace, probably eating enough sugar to last him for a week or two, smiling against his will, as he realizes that it’s getting harder and harder to stay sad, and when he feels guilty about not staying sad, the cookies just seem to get rid of the guilt too.

In minutes he’s groping about in an empty bag, the moment over.

“Ooohhhhh boy, you’ve got the HFS look on your face. No biggie. Everyone gets it when they taste Hunk’s stuff for the first time.”

“’HFS’?”

Lance grins and plants his hands on his hips, elevating his posture.

“’Holy fucking shit’!”

He grins at Keith, as if challenging him to say that _no_ , he did not just taste the _best motherfucking cookies he’s ever had in his entire life_.

Keith tries to hold everything in, but as he stares resolutely at Lance, his face keeps slipping up, and a giggle seeps from his lips. Next is a snicker, and before Keith knows it, the two of them are breaking out into rounds and rounds of ugly, snorting laughter. Keith’s abs start to hurt, and he realizes that this is the first time in his life he’s laughed so hard.

“Shoot, you’re right, you’re right! Those were amazing!”

They settle down, and Lance plops down onto the couch next to Keith, staring up at the ceiling.

“Man, screw cooking for today.”

Keith peers over, curious.

“Bad day, too?”

“Mmn, not really, but I’m a bit tired still. My vacation was over just like that, and it’s just been busy in general lately.”

Lance doesn’t seem to be lying. There’ still the faint sheen of sweat on his head, and the feeling his gets from Lance is one that’s restless, with a hint of unease. Why is Lance so busy right now? The texts that he gets that aren’t from his friends are all missions, and it seems like clockwork, almost every visit Lance makes is followed by a buzz and a groan from the boy. Keith doesn’t nearly remember going on missions that often with Shiro, and even if Blues’ were more active, this is still an insane workload.

What could even be keeping Lance so busy? It’s not like they were running short on manpower?

_Click._

Like gears running in Keith’s head, it suddenly all makes sense.

Well, they aren’t ever running short on grunts, but if he and Shiro are both gone, and they still haven’t found replacements, or are keeping the Black spot purposely empty, then isn’t Lance the only Disposable Color left?

“Shit, they’re really working you to death, aren’t they?”

“Trying to,” Lance laughs, before wriggling up in his seat.

“Anyways,” he begins, with great solemnity, “I’m feeling some junk food. Like burgers.”

“Hot dogs.”

“Fries, all kinds.”

“Smoothies!”

“Onion rings!”

“Deep-fried everything!” the two shout together in unison.

 

The two of them strolling out on the night street, amidst all the families and friends also out for a relaxing weekend. In this atmosphere, they both are as normal as can be. Some people glance at Lance’s odd choker, but the curious glances barely last even a second.

“Anything in mind?” Keith sighs, hands in his pockets as they keep wandering about.

“Lance?”

There’s no response. He stops and turns around, to see Lance paused and looking at something across the street.

“Hey, Keith, do you ever miss that kinda stuff?”

The random question takes Keith by surprise, and he flashes an odd look back.

“What?”

“Like, being part of a family,” Lance answers, tilting his head barely in the direction of two parents and their child, happily chatting as they go down the streets.

Keith studies Lance’s face, trying to find out the reason behind Lance’s words, but he’s always been terrible at this sort of stuff. The mysteries of a human heart, whatever they are, will always be a mystery to him, as far as he’s concerned. In this case, maybe honesty’s just the best way to go about this.

“Can’t miss what you never had, but I sure as hell did get jealous of other kids that I saw being adopted.”

 “You’re an orphan?”

Lance’s face is twisted strangely. There’s an odd wetness to his eyes, while his eyebrows are scrunched and he presses his lips together. Keith wonders vaguely what it is that Lance is thinking about right now.

“Yeah.”

The matter-of-fact answer doesn’t seem satisfying enough to Lance.

“Then, how’d you deal with… everything? I mean, like, _work_ and everything that’s happened to you?”

Finally, a clear-cut question that Keith can understand, no strings attached.

“Shiro.”

He answers clearly, eyes bright and looking straight at Lance. Lance’s eyes widen, but eventually his head lowers just slightly, a faint smile on his lips.

“Huh. He’s really important to you. More than I expected.”

“Of course.”

The two start to walk again, and Lance begins to joke again.

“How about this then? When we find him, you get to talk to him first, but I get to go second! The guy’s my hero!”

“Shiro’s not some sorta dumb celebrity or whatever, alright?!”

“Blah blah blah, I get to go second!”

“Ugh, fine, whatever floats your boat.”

 

It’s not until they’re both in the middle of digging into a mess of junk food that Lance remembers something and stops with a fry mid-way into his mouth.

“We still haven’t grabbed any cendol together.”

“Well, that’s kinda hard to right now,” Keith responds, trying to keep the sarcasm in his voice down to a minimum.

“Should we try making it ourselves?”

“Dunno, I won’t be much help though.”

Keith shoves his hand into the pile of fries and onion rings and chicken strips that the two of them have created, and fishes out an onion ring to dip into some sauce. People are staring at the monstrosity that they’ve made, but he doesn’t care.

“You can’t be _that_ useless in the kitchen. Besides, won’t it better for you to learn how to cook on your own? It’s cheaper and you won’t starve whenever our schedules don’t match up.”

The longer Lance waits for an answer, the more Keith seems to squirm in his seat, shoving more and more food into his mouth.

“Did something ever… happen?”

“…Burns.”

“What?”

“…It always burns.”

“So? Baby steps. You can practice, with me making sure nothing happens.”

“No, I always nearly burn down the kitchen, or whatever we’re cooking with. Shiro sorta banned me from cooking with anything stove-related.”

A bit of sweat starts collecting on the back of Lance’s neck, but he tries to keep a positive face up.

“C’mon, it can’t be that bad-!”

“The camping stove exploded.”

“Huh?”

“I sealed the pot we were cooking the stew in too tightly, so steam built up and burst the entire thing, and it wrecked the stove too.”

“Jesus.”

“Another time I burned some food and set off the fire alarm, and while I was trying to shut up the fire alarm, because I used too much oil, the oil set on fire, and the flames spread to the back of the wall.”

“ _I’ve been in the same kitchen as you!_ ” Lance screeches.

“I set popcorn on fire in a microwave at the Garrison once too-,”

“That was you too?!”

Keith looks like he can keep on going on, but Lance raises a hand to stop him.

“N-no. I get the idea,” he groans, covering his face as he thinks about what potential catastrophes he may have possibly avoided.

“Shiro took care of all the cooking after so much stuff happened,” Keith admits, and by now Lance is noticing that the amount of discomfort Keith is feeling seems to be directly proportional to how fast Keith can shovel French fries and chicken and onion rings into his mouth.

“Yeah, maybe cooking isn’t your calling – dammit.”

Lance glumly drops to the greasy table and starts shoving food into his mouth at as fast of a pace as Keith’s. He wipes his hands and checks his phone, his eyes flashing over the message for a second before he puts it back away.

“They’re really working me down here.”

“I’m busy next week too, so let’s make cendol when we’re both back,” Keith offers.

“Sounds good.”

Keith watches Lance quietly, then speaks up.

“Hey, aren’t you ever freaked out about your missions?”

“I can’t die yet so I won’t.”

The answer is so fast that Keith blinks in shock for a moment, and Lance is already talking again after he’s processed the words.

“Hunk is gonna be sad if I die, Pidgeon has someone she needs to find and we promised to help, and I wanna keep cooking and eating with you, because that’s fun. So I can’t die yet.”

Lance glances up, then flashes a beaming smile.

“Don’t worry! I’ll be okay!”

The words somehow make Keith smile, but he tries to smother his mouth a bit.

“…Says the guy who passed out on my couch for a few days and tried to murder multiple times.”

“WILL YOU LET THAT DIE?!”

 

The paper bag that the cookies in smells amazing, and Keith waits almost an hour before he tosses it into the trash. His waistband feels like it’s trying to strangle his stomach, and he grumbles and changes before falling back into his bed.

_…because that’s fun._

Lance’s words keep randomly popping back into his head, and he curls in, slightly disturbed by but enjoying the warm feeling buzzing in his chest. The idea that Lance considers him a reason to not die just feels _nice_. He doesn’t think he’s ever been something good enough for someone to consider staying alive over, but at the same time the idea of telling Lance that maybe he should take Keith off that list just makes a rock drop in his insides.

Alright then.

He gropes about his phone and quickly searches up a cendol recipe. He quickly scans down through the ingredients and the instructions, trying to pause and think over every step as carefully as possible.

He can do this.

As long as he follows this recipe perfectly, and is very, _very_ careful, he can do this, and Keith is anything but a quitter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious about what Lance's thought process was behind Rose's name, just search up the meaning of yellow roses. 
> 
> I might sound like a broken record at this point, but your guys's comments and kudos's really help out with this poor author's floundering motivation~~~


	12. Prologue End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things end and some other things begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being MIA for awhile! I think my inspiration for this went dead for a bit, but I forced myself to write and build up the story even more!  
> ...This truly is shaping up to become a monster fic...
> 
> A LOT happens in this chapter... but I also wanted to write a long chapter for everyone too, to make up for taking so long, haha!
> 
> Enjoy!

With every step, the man crushes the exact same amount of gravel into the ground.

His footsteps are precise and measured, just like his immaculate clothes, and it all just makes Keith’s feet twitch and teeth clench. He can’t help but wonder how such a stiff, calculated target even lives from day to day, their whole life dictated by an internal checklist.

Can barely existing from day to day even count as living?

A jittery shiver crawls up Keith’s skin again, and he resists the urge to shake it out. The sound of the gravel is getting louder, and he forces himself to be patient. Crouching in these bushes in the heat is a challenge, but he’s definitely been through worse. Speaking of the heat, won’t the finished cendol be perfect in this sort of weather? If he gets the okay from Lance, maybe he’ll try to make some for Shiro when they find him-

A sharp wind blows against his face and he hears the air being cut as he lunges towards the target. The wire misses him by a whole yard, and the man immediately yanks back his pendulum, but Keith’s already in the perfect position. Eerily enough, the man’s face hasn’t changed a single bit, his face as still as a stone, even as Keith’s knife is heading directly for the man’s plucking fingers.

“Too bad.”

From his opposite hand another pendulum shoots out and the wire twists around Keith’s wrist and hand, coiling up to stop and blunt the knife as well. His original pendulum swings around straight for Keith’s back as the boy struggles with his bound hand. As the piece of metal advance, it somehow gains speed and momentum until it’s a bullet the size of a fist closing in. Meanwhile the wire tightens, and Keith bites his lip as he feels his fingers and hand slowly go numb. He takes out a small knife and begins sawing at the wire slowly, the entire time yanking backwards in some sort of twisted tug-of-war. A small groan escapes his lips as the numbness begins to _hurt_ , and he picks up the pace of his cutting.

That doesn’t mean he’s blind though, and he easily sidesteps the pendulum behind him. The man’s jaw drops, and he frantically tries to redirect his own weapon, but there’s too much force behind the pendulum, and it buries itself deep into his torso.

All stoicism drops from his face and he drops to the ground screaming while writhing about like a worm. Keith can only sigh in relief as the wire loosens and uncoils from his hand, and he casually shakes it, trying to get blood back into his fingertips.

He’s already trying to count all how much he can get and save with this new bounty as he calls the police receptionist for Sweepers to report a catch, and maybe he’s just tired, but he swears he can still hear her groan after hearing his voice again for what seems like the fiftieth time.

Keith returns to his apartment with a fresh set of ingredients as well as a new pot to replace the old one, partially funded by the bounty money he’s just gotten. The apartment itself is looking a little worse for wear, and the kitchen looks like it’s been through a war. Ruined pots and a few pans are scattered about, the burn mark behind the stove won’t go away no matter how much he scrubs, burned sugar is cemented to the stovetop, and everytime he turns on the heat, food bits fused to the grate above the flame smoke gently.

“Okay, attempt number… whatever the hell it is,” he grumbles, painstakingly measuring out everything in a mass of different little bowls and holders. He spends almost half an hour just prepping everything. It’s so tedious sometimes that he wants to give up, but he holds on, forcing himself not to cut any corners. He has the recipe almost committed to memory by now, and follows everything exactly as it says, trying not to be too impatient or to take his eyes off the mixtures as they cook.

With a deep breath, he stuffs the cendol paste into the ricer and squeezes down little strings of the green jelly into the bowl of ice water. He runs a fork through the cendol worms, and to his shock, they little strands don’t break apart or are too firm.

Trying not to get his hopes up, he starts to work on the sugar syrup, carefully keeping the heat at the right temperature, waiting for the water to boil, and since this time the palm sugar is sliced thin enough, it actually melts like a dream in the water. Once cooled, he carefully assembles all the cendol, canned fruit, ice, coconut milk, and syrup into a class, then takes a wary sip.

It doesn’t taste salty, the syrup has given the crushed ice a nice sweetness, and the worms have that same, interesting flavor he tasted before.

“Holy shit, I did it.”

Keith looks around, then talks again to himself.

“I did it. I did it!”

He shrieks and laughs maniacally, jumping all around his living room, the soles of his boots pounding into the floorboards. Smearing sugar syrup all over his phone in the process, he quickly texts Lance, feeling his heart twist and squeeze in his chest in a wonderful way that doesn’t feel like when he thinks about Shiro but still goes beyond simple satisfaction.

His light-stepping feet touch back down to reality, but the hazy happiness in his head mixed with exhaustion isn’t gone, just spiked with some more realization.

He’s _proud_.

 

“Dead knot or bow, dead knot or bow?” Lance hums, before finally deciding on a bow, letting the cords dangle down the back of his neck, the ends brushing between his shoulder blades. His hair is still damp from the shower, but right as he’s about to dry it, his phone chirps and chimes.

Curiously he checks the message, placing a hand on his hip.

[I diiiiiiiid it! Who says I can’t cook?! I made cendol!]

Lance’s brain freezes for a second, and once the panic has somewhat diminished, all the other gears in his head start spinning and whirring.

[oh my god are u dead is the kitchen okay whats the damage holy shit]

Keith replies much faster than Lance expects.

[SERIOUSLY?!]

[I DID IT]

[EVERYTHING’S FINE ASSHOLE]

“Wha- I’m just worried you dumbass!” Lance snaps at no one in particular, but he still sighs a bit later. Obviously, Keith is texting him, so he’s still alive, and he’s telling Lance because they both wanted to try it together.

Worry is replaced by something a bit bubblier, and he bursts into a slew of small chuckles, typing back a short response.

[That’s awesome. Next time we both meet up then?]

[HELL YEA]

Laughs and giggles freely spill from his lips as he doubles over and wraps an arm over his stomach.

“Jeez, don’t kill yourself over this!”

He barely knocks on the lab’s door before it slides open and he runs in, deftly hopping over bundles of cords and bits of equipment here and there.

“What’s up everyone?”

“Shhh!”

Hunk scampers over, a finger to his lips as he gestures to Pidge. Her eyes are glued to a myriad of screens, and her hands over a blur over the keyboard. Lance’s eyes widen, and he quickly turns back to Hunk, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

“What the hell’s actually giving _Pidgeon_ this much trouble?” he seethes, the bubbles in his chest quickly being popped with something like tense wires being twisted up more and more, the ends jabbing into the fleshy parts of his insides.

“Galra.”

“Shit.”

Right as he says that, Pidge’s fingers jolt to a stop, waver, then press a single key.

She leans back far into her seat, then sobs and sighs all at once in a single sound.

“This… This _had_ to be some of Matt’s work.”

The two of them exchange a look of shock before sprinting and clambering over to Pidge’s side.

“For real?!”

“For real?!”

She laughs sharply, spinning around and cackling.

“Yes, yes, _yes_! It’ll take me some time to go through the data, but this is the closest I’ve ever been!”

Lance breaks into a big, golden smile, and he and Hunk both scoop her up into a suffocating hug, wobbling all about like huge, lumbering bundle of shrieking and giggling.

“You did it Pidgeon! You did it!”

“Dude, we need to celebrate!” Hunk gasps. He freezes, and Lance and Pidge both simultaneously choke in his arms as their bodies screech to a halt.

“Tomorrow, we party!” he declares. Lance and Pidge’s eyes both sparkle at Hunk’s determination.

 

“I’m looking forward to meeting this person that you trust so much, Shiro,” the silver-haired girl says. Her smile is beautiful and carefully crafted, but the gaze she carries is hard and glittering.

“Investigation isn’t Keith’s strongest point, but he’s not dumb. Give him a clue, and he’ll eventually figure it out. Considering what we’re giving can barely be called a clue though, it might take a while, Princess Allura.”

He rubs the bridge of his nose, grounding himself and his worries in the numbness of his scar. It’s a new habit he’s picked up along the way, except now he doesn’t have to worry about infections from picking at an open wound.

“That’s fine. There's no point in taking any drastic actions right now,” she says, laughing softly. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re like holed-up rats in this fortress.”

She emphasizes her point with a gesture – flicking her fingers upward in a smooth motion towards the vaulted ceilings and alien architecture.

“Even if we had all the Lions and Paladins to match right now, it’d be useless if we can’t get logistics down.” Her eyes and expression soften, as she begins to somewhat relax. “Besides, if your friend is going to work as hard as you say he is going to, then we can hardly just sit back and wait, no?”

“Hah, well-spoken, Princess.”

“Princess! I’ve just sent out the message!” a man says as he strolls in. Shiro swears the man’s ginger mustache is somehow bobbing up and down with a life of its own, but who knows how Altean hair works.

“Sorry to trouble you like this, Coran.”

“Nonsense! Besides, as our new black Paladin, you have every right to suggest who you want as a fellow comrade.”

“Thank you.”

Shiro rubs the bridge of his nose again, mulling over his faith in Keith.

_Do your best Keith. I know you can do this._

 

Keith chokes and tumbles off his chair. With wide eyes and disheveled clothes and hair, he scuttles back onto his knees, gasping at email on the screen of his laptop.

Sender unknown.

A single line with coordinates.

Underneath that line:

‘Patience yields virtue.’

‘Dried apples under that tree in Greece.’

“Shiro…!” he whispers under his breath, the syllables cracking on his leaden tongue. The first phrase is what Shiro always told him. And the second sentence… is irrevocable proof that this is from Shiro.

 

It was a hot summer afternoon. The mission was done, but they had to wait another day until extraction. Keith didn’t dare say what the delay was, but Shiro cheered softly in their room.

_“Great, a vacation!”_

They wandered around a picturesque tourist-trap of a town, where Shiro bought dried apple slices as a snack. As sweat rolled down their faces, they shared the packet of apples, hiding away from the sun under the gnarled branches. The sunlight passed through the trees unevenly, creating abstract shadow patterns over Shiro’s skin, and as Keith watched them ripple over the man, sugar on his tongue and face aflame from something other than the intense heat, he willingly told someone his past for the first time ever.   

Shiro took it all in stride, and at the very end he softly ruffled Keith’s hair.

 

_“I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me that.”_

Overwhelming kindness. Enough to suffocate a person, but for some reason Keith was thriving and breathing in that pitiless gaze that only carried understanding.

 

“Lance, you got this, right?!” Pidge interrogates, leaning in so close that she could see the liquid sloshing around in Lance’s pendant if she wanted to.

“I promised, didn’t I?” Lance proclaims. He stands up tall and puffs out his chest with a big grin. “I can’t believe it, you found a lead Pidgeon! You did your part, so now I’ll do mine!”

“Don’t push your luck though,” Hunk interrupts, making sure to give Lance a sharp rap to the back. “No matter what, staying alive is always the best.”

Lance chirps some agreeing noise, and as he passes through the gates of the hangar, the noise of the helicopter is suddenly deafening. Before he jumps in though, he turns around to look at his best friends. Pidgeon and Hunk are both beaming brightly, but he can still see the worry in their eyes, bubbling under the surface. Even this happiness they feel can’t drown out the unease they feel every time he runs off to what might be his death.

“You guys… really are too good for a loser like me,” he mumbles.

“What was that?!”Pidge screams through the noise, confused.

“We didn’t hear!” Hunk also calls trying to help.

Lance merely shakes his head and waves before hopping inside the chopper. The helicopter rises up into the sky, and he rubs at his pendant again. His choker is tied in a dead-knot over the undersuit, and the ends are tucked under the collar of his shirt so that they don’t become easy targets to grab and choke him with.

“Guess I’m still not strong enough, Rowan,” he says to himself, before letting out a soft laugh. “Well, you _were_ in a whole ‘nother league though.”

As the chopper nears the Galran base, for some reason Lance keeps thinking about Rowan. Rowan who was so strong that you never had to worry whenever he went out. Amazing, amazing Rowan, who seemed like he knew and could do anything. Rowan, who would sometimes lift Lance up to reach cabinets that he was still too short for (much to Lance’s chagrin), and the next moment could be jamming the muzzle of a gun down some poor sap’s jaw.

“Blue, we’re here.”

Lance snaps out of his daydream and quickly thanks the pilot before rappelling down. As soon as his feet hit the dirt, he checks the small watch on his left wrist. The screen flashes and a compass appears on the screen. With that he begins to trek through the forest towards the base. The sun is has just set, and the place is still awash in a faint golden glow. The strong scent of the plants here stays in Lance’s nose. Trees and sunlight; just like how Rowan always smelled. It was a bizarre, odd scent for a person to have, but undeniably soothing as well.

Why is Rowan suddenly in his thoughts again?

And so strongly no less?

Like the compulsive habit it’s become, a hand keeps going up to his throat, rubbing at the drop-shaped stone. It’s not until a drop of cold condensation rolls down it that he notices something very wrong.

The pendant is _cold_.

It’s as cold as ice, and by the time his feet hit concrete, the freezing feeling has begun to even seep through the suit to his skin. If he didn’t have the suit, it might be starting to hurt by now. Nausea flits through his head, and he takes uneasy steps towards what looks like a warehouse on the other end of the compound.

“…No.”

Lance slams a foot down, so hard that the concrete cracks, and he sucks in a deep breath through gritted teeth, fighting the call and a sickness that just makes him want to huddle up and wait it out.

“Pidgeon needs the data,” he breathes, “so _stick_ with it!”

He slams a fist into his own gut with a gag, then resolutely begins to head towards a smaller, more discreet building closer to his arrival point. His head swirls with thoughts of Rowan, and his pendant grows more and more unbearably cold. Lance curls his hands around it, not caring as his palms begin to hurt.

“Please, just! Stop!”

Bizarrely, for some reason, the pendant listens. Lance is hyperventilating and he forces himself to slow down – to take deeper breaths. The pain in his hands subsides, and he exhales slowly, letting air from his lungs stream out in a long, thin thread.

“… What the hell… Rowan… What _is_ this?” he mutters to himself, tightly clutching the pendant.

 

In that isolated room, the heart monitor has always beeped steadily.

Under the hospital gown, the scar that’s stretched out over the man’s sternum is mottled and grotesque, a bizarre mix of pale pink and bruising purple, all with the characteristic sheen of scar tissue.

Brain activity has been close to nothing for so long, but still, they keep him alive as a possible resource.

Like magic, the other machines in the room also begin to beep and lines on the screen begin to fluctuate wildly. The technician drops her clipboard, frantically begins to input a code into the door that connects to the patient. It slides open with a hiss and she rushes over to a cabinet to take out some loaded syringes before going to the man’s bedside. His eyelids are fluttering, and with bated breath she watches as the man’s eyes slowly open.

“Sir-!”

Suddenly, all she can see is the ceiling, as she pitches over and hits the ground, the lights smearing a flash of blindness over her vision. The man sighs and stretches, grimacing at how _weak_ he feels. He’s already standing, and over the dead technician’s body he begins carefully removing all the IV’s and electrodes attached to his body.

As he pulls off the ones over his heart, he grimaces at the sight of the scar, and he also notices the unfamiliar fashions that the tech was wearing under her coat. He sheepishly scratches at his head, mussing corn silk hair that drapes past his hips. It wasn’t short before, but it’s even longer now.

“Damn, Lance is gonna kill me.”

 

Nausea hits Keith like a brick to the face when he finally sneaks onto the compound. Or rather, it’s not nausea, but something similar that still makes a rock in his stomach and his skull bloated, all while creating a restless urge in his body.

The warehouse to his left stands out like a monolith, towering over every other building and wide enough to fit in a town of people if necessary. Steeling himself, he heads towards it, hiding himself in the shadows as night creeps up over this place. The guards patrolling around walk stiffly, heavily armored with guns to match, and Keith clicks his tongue in annoyance, sliding under a tank right as he hears two of them coming up around the corner.

Eventually they pass, and he starts hurrying as fast as he can towards the warehouse, but the guards are scattered about everywhere, and he’s forced to sneak around, even as he thinks he might explode from impatience.

Shiro’s words repeat in his head, and he takes a deep breath.

“Don’t push it, don’t push it,” he mumbles, sneaking his way over until he’s finally by the warehouse. He expected there to be more entrances, but for its imposing, vulnerable size, it’s security seems just as impeccable as well. A truck honks at a gate, and the bored guard presses a button to let it through. Keith squints at the underbelly of the truck, but he drops the idea. He doesn’t know when those trucks come or where they are from. Further down to a more isolated entrance to the warehouse, Keith notices yet another guard, sitting and waiting.

Guess that’ll have to do.

He crawls under the window and around to a door on the other side of the guard booth, then sharply raps his knuckles on it.

“What is it?”

“Some idiot lost a key!” he says on the spur of the moment, and to his relief, the guard inside groans heavily.

“Oh god it’s Connor again, isn’t it? Here, lemme find that spare for you again. You’d think they’d just stop giving the kid keys…” the guard grumbles.

He opens the door, and before he can even recoil in shock away from this stranger, Keith kicks him in the solar plexus hard enough to knock him out from the pain. He quickly binds the guard’s thumbs and ankles together with zip ties, then searches the dash for anything to open the door. After a few tries, he lifts a small lever, and the door rumbles open. Keith dashes out and into the warehouse. For a while, there’s nothing but darkness, but eventually lights on the massive walls turn on with an electric buzz, and he sticks to the sides, as always. The strange feeling has crept from his insides and into his bones, humming as if resonating with something. He goes through a small door for personnel, and his jaw drops.

The walls, from floor to ceiling, are lined with massive tanks full of some golden, glowing liquid. It sloshes about thickly, and in this wing of the warehouse, he notices a small raised dais with a panel on it. Smaller, much more manageable tanks of the golden liquid are attached to it by tubes, and Keith glances about, before running over to the dais. He gently prods at one of the tubes with his knife, but its far more fragile than he expected, and the blade cuts right through. Liquid sloshes out and all over his clothes, and his fingers quickly fumble for the connector, which Keith twists until he can pull it away from the dais. The small tank is a little less than a foot tall, and barely six inches wide, but there’s more than enough inside to analyze.

“Stop!”

Guards appear with guns, and Keith rolls behind the dais with a startle, cradling the jar in the crook of his arm. Bullets rain against the dais, but for now it’s holding up. There’s a lull in the shooting and he darts out near the tanks. The guards hesitate to shoot, and in those moments, he kicks off the tanks. As his body soars through the air, he twists around, increasing his momentum before his foot slams into one guard’s neck. The gear the man’s wearing means that Keith doesn’t break his neck, but he’s out like a light. The other guard tries to shoot him, but Keith grabs and twists his arm, listening for the telltale sound of cracking bones, before releasing the now screaming guard. With his knife he slices away at the straps to the protective chest gear, and before it even falls to the ground his fist sinks inches deep into the man’s stomach. The two are on the ground, but as Keith searches for where they came from, an alarm begins to blare throughout the warehouse. Guards pour in from all sorts of nooks and crannies, and he gasps as he’s forced to dodge and run.

A stray bullet flies near and shatters the jar, golden light spilling out and over him, dripping to the floor thickly like blood.

“No!” he shrieks, pawing fruitlessly at emptiness. That jar is a clue to where Shiro is. He can’t lose Shiro again – not like this!

He turns around to rush back towards the dais, but a hail of bullets forces him to retreat even more instead. Tears of frustration begin to build up in his eyes, and he screams as he’s forced to begin fighting his way out.

 

Bullets ding against the metal desk that Lance is huddled behind, and every moment he can he’s darting out to return fire. Even though he never misses, for every one that he takes out, it feels like two come to take their place.

A stray bullet nicks him on the cheek, and he groans and ducks away again. The USB plugged into the server couldn’t be slower, and even though he’s defending with all his might, the guards are slowly closing in. A bullet gets dangerously close to the USB, and without hesitating, he sticks his arm out and lets the bullet hit the suit and bruise him instead.

Pidge said that the light on the USB would turn green once it was done transferring info to her personal servers. It’s just gone from orange to yellow, and he almost feels like screaming in frustration before firing out his entire clip.

“He’s out! Move in!”

“As if,” Lance seethes, already done reloading before he takes advantage of their confidence to take out a whole slew of them. Already, the bodies are beginning to impede their way down these narrow hallways full of servers, and maybe it sounds disgusting and crazy, but the ‘human shield’ plan is working way better than Lance expected. Sure they’re still closing in, but they’re closing in slowly-

“Screw this!”

A grenade flies, the metal hitting the floor with a surprisingly heavy thud. Lance’s eyes widen, and he flash steps up and dashes away on top of the servers, right as a small fireball engulfs those few servers, some of the guards after him, and –

“The USB! No!” he cries, falling off the servers and tripping onto the floor, dazed and heartbroken.

Pidgeon couldn’t get everything. Depending on how corrupted the data might be, who knows how much she can salvage? Bullets land near his feet, and with a sob he flees.

As he rushes out, the whole compound is a mess of sirens and shots and guards scattered about. Lance takes them out without any mercy, and calls for backup at the same time. He sweeps through the compound, not caring about what might be happening. A large group nears, and as he feels how light his leftover ammo feels, he ducks away and smacks into someone else.

Lance immediately raises his gun, only to be met with Keith’s knife at his throat.

Keith looks like he’s been through hell, and judging from how they both wordlessly drop their weapons, he must look like shit too.

“Same target?” Keith asks quietly, keeping his words vague.

“Y-yeah,” Lance lies.

“Shit!”

Keith bites his lip, spinning the blade in his hands. He has no idea why Lance is here, but that’s not what matters. From what he’s heard of the Blue’s modus operandi, no survivors are allowed. Immediately he scans Lance. As expected, Lance looks like he’s got three guns total, and that dull-colored suit under his armored clothes looks like trouble. He’s fought Lance before, and he knows that at close range, he’s better. If can spring a surprise attack, and he doesn’t slack off, he can definitely win-

“We gotta run.”

“What?”

Lance grabs Keith, and Keith, shocked, follows along in the moment. Lance is running, and Keith follows.

 “I’m sorry,” Lance murmurs, his head running through scenario after scenario, terror squeezing his heart and making him feel sick and ill. Today is quickly becoming the worst day of his life. The guilt from letting down Pidge is eating away at him, but he forces himself to ignore that horrible feeling and switch his attention to making sure Keith gets out safely. No matter what, he never wants to see a friend die.

“You need to leave and run. Abandon your place. I shouldn’t have-!” he cries.

 _Shouldn’t have what?_ Keith wonders. He digs his heels in, and Lance nearly trips.

“I’m fine. Of course I have a contingency plan. Lance. What about you?” he says gruffly.

Lance bites his lip, refusing to look at Keith. He knows what he needs to do. The question is if he _can_ do it.

“We’re gonna see each other again, for sure,” he answers eventually, eyes hard and cold. “I… I can do it.”

Worry floats through his expression, and Lance speaks up, hesitantly.

“Keith. Please don’t forget me, okay?”

The expression is so pleading, that something manages to cut through the frustration swirling inside Keith.

“…I won’t. Promise.”

It’s sometimes useful to know someone so hot-headed and driven, Lance thinks. Seeing the sureness in Keith’s eyes reassures him.

He holds up a fist, and thank god Keith knows at least enough to bump their fists together. Someone approaches them, their footsteps tapping on the concrete.

“Blue, what is this?”

Keith keeps his face covered with his scarf, then sprints away, his feet kicking up small clouds of concrete dust. Lance doesn’t say anything for a few moments, then turns to face the speaker, trying to hide the wetness in his eyes with a big smile.

“Hi, Sam. This must look really bad, huh?”

The man smiles back, albeit a bit with a bit more effort.

“Yeah, no shit. Are you finally…”

Lance blinks a few times.

“’Finally’?”

“Well, I mean, we all know you’re too good of a kid to just keep doing this,” Sam laughs, taking out his own handgun.

“You make friends too easily,” he says softly, aiming at Lance.

“You guys all thought that?”

“You’re a good kid, but first and foremost, we _are_ the soldiers of Garrison.”

“…No hard feelings,” Lance replies.

“No hard feelings.”

Sam shoots, but Lance flash steps forward and behind Sam, slamming down the butt of the gun on the back of Sam’s head. Concussions aren’t ever fun, but it can’t be helped. Sam hits the ground, and it feels like Lance’s guts have also been scooped out and hit the ground in sync. His breathing goes wild, and it takes him way too long to get up and run away. Adrenaline helps to channel some of the panic elsewhere, and he quickly calls up Pidge and Hunk, sobbing and trying to fit together coherent sentences for them interspliced with ‘sorry’ and rambling.

 

Keith throws a mass of things into a backpack lined with cash at the bottom, and he only takes the time to carefully place the photo of him and Shiro into an inner pocket. He kicks a cabinet, and as he does, a golden droplet falls to the ground.

Keith’s eyes widen, and he carefully checks his clothes.

They are soaked and heavy, with more than just sweat.

Time is of the essence, but Keith doesn’t’ care. He finds a vial and begins wringing out every last drop of the golden liquid into it, until the vial is finally full. There’s barely enough for one person to work with, but it’s _something_.

As he rushes out the door, bag on his shoulder, he freezes as he sees the cendol.

If everything had gone at planned, would he be sipping cendol with Lance in a few days? His eyes linger over the glasses, but he kills the feeling and strides out, locking the door behind him. On the streets he throws the keys into the nearest dumpster without a hint of sentimentality. There’s not much in his storage container, but it’s clean and carefully maintained, including the tarp over the mass in the center. Grasping the ends, he yanks it all off in a single motion, the fabric billowing up and over. Underneath is a flashy red hover-bike, ready to go, with provisions already strapped to the back and stored under the seat – his “severance” pay from the Garrison,

Hover-bikes are rare, but not unheard of, and right now the speed and versatility is what’s going to get him as far away as possible from this situation. The slow hum of the engine revs up into a roar, and he hurtles off the compound as fast as possible and onto an empty road.

Right on cue, the fleet of black cars rev up from behind him, and shots bounce off the asphalt and dent parts of the hoverbike, but that won’t stop Keith.

 

“Dinner too.”

“You’re a frickin lifesaver,” Lance mumbles, taking the bag from Hunk. He can’t look up as Pidge puts the finishing touches on his phone.

“Perfect,” she says aloud to no one in particular, then hands it back over.

“They shouldn’t be able to trace you anymore. Also, take Rose with you. It’ll be a good way to establish secure connection for other things, and don’t worry, she’s already knows how to do that.”

The mouse squeaks and crawls into his pocket. He’s changed into streetclothes again, but this time his jacket is something special, custom-made for him by his friends. His work clothes are stuffed into his bag with a variety of other valuables that can be pawned or sold for cash, including a ring with sapphires and diamonds.

“Pidge,” Lance begins, “I’m sorry.”

Pidge pauses, her glasses glinting under the streetlights.

“Don’t underestimate me.”

“Huh?”

“I’m a genius, remember?!” she snaps, feigning irritation and pointing a thumb at her chest. “You really think not getting everything is going to stop me?! Idiot!”

She jabs at Lance in the chest, furious.

“I’m just glad my friend is alive! And look, he even kept his promise and did his best to help me!”

Lance’s can feel the tears welling up, but he forces them back, even as Hunk hugs them all close. To his surprise, Hunk then places him back and slams his palms onto Lance’s shoulders, his eyes steely but also wet.

“Promise me! Promise me you’ll stay alive, Lance! We still need to talk about all sorts of stuff, and you’re part of our team! Also, you’re my best friend. You’ll make me sad if you die!”

“I promise,” Lance says, nodding.

And just like that, he leaves and rushes off towards the airport.

The two of them stand under the streetlights, anxious, but Pidge speaks up again.

“C’mon, let’s head back.”

“…Yeah.”

 

Lance can’t contain his irritation and anxiety during the flight, and he’s off like a shot as soon as possible. He grabs a taxi and rushes for the nearest neighborhood, not caring that he looks like a mess or that the gun on his thigh is obvious for all to see. He throws some bills and leaps out of the cab, sprinting for the right building, hoping and praying that he isn’t too late. The lights are off in the window, and his heart beats wildly, but as he searches around wildly, he can’t find the attackers.

“Lance.”

He spins around, already going for the revolver, but Harrison gently raises up his arms.

“Wait. They’re safe. Are you alright?”

The look in Lance’s eyes must be horribly unsteady, since Harrison reaches forward and firmly grasps Lance’s arms.

“Breathe. I took care of the guards. I got your family to leave as soon as possible. They’re moving elsewhere, but they took it all in stride, since they’re good people.”

The weight on his body helps to calm Lance, and he hears the words as they flit in.

His family is safe.

“Th-thanks. You… What are you gonna do?”

That’s just like Lance, worrying about others even like this. He’s a good kid.

Harrison ruffles Lance’s hair.

“I’m leaving too. This assignment’s been leaving a bad taste in my mouth for awhile anyways. Is your phone secure?”

Lance nods.

“Good. Let’s stay in touch. For now, worry about yourself,” he answers, pausing to run a thumb over Lance’s dark circles and the tears beginning to bead up in the boy’s eyes.

“Thanks, Harrison. I really… I really owe you one.”

“You don’t. Now go.”

Lance nods and runs off into the darkness, and Harrison waits until he can’t even hear Lance’s steps anymore.

“Well then, let’s get this over with,” he says softly to himself, pulling on a pair of showy gauntlets. The formerly busy area has gone deathly quiet, and all around people begin to converge on in.

 

* * *

 

 

A lone hitchhiker stands in the shoulder, their figure nearly swallowed up by the plumes of dust and dirt. The heat must be battering down on them right now, but they’re cheerfully keeping that thumb outstretched with a bounce in their heels.

For a hoverbike like this, a hitchhiker’s just impractical and unwieldy. It’s bad enough that Keith has to store so much stuff in the seat compartment or strap it to the back like a tumor, but something about the figure seems familiar though. Keith grumbles and argues with himself, before ultimately deciding to stop. If nothing else, they can trade info.

The roar of the engine dims as he pulls onto the dirt near the hitchhiker. They’ve got their nose and mouth covered like Keith, to keep out the dust. Keith sighs and tugs down his scarf and pulls up his goggles.

“Hey! Where are you heading to?!” he calls. The hitchhiker jolts up, and without the haze of dirt over his goggles, Keith sees those blue-black eyes-

“Lance?!”

“Keith!”

Lance rips down his scarf and rushes over, smiling big and looking so glad, even with a face covered in dirt, sweat, and a cloudy mix of both. Keith takes a moment to clear the shock from his mind, then laughs and cheers loudly together with Lance.

Lance’s stuff gets strapped to the back, adding to the tumor, and he sits on the seat behind Keith, their backs pressed together.

“Don’t blame me if you fall off and die,” Keith warns, but Lance merely squeezes his thighs around the seat to double-check.

“Nah, I’ll be fine. Besides, what if ya’ need someone to shoot from the back?” he chirps, miming firing shots.

Keith just groans and guns it, pouting as Lance leans back perfectly in time, the warmth of their backs adding to the suffocating heat and grime. The proof that Lance is alive and real and here right now, pressed into him, makes Keith smile under his scarf and goggles.

Lance braces his hands on the sides of the seat, glancing over his shoulder at Keith. His gaze is tired and mingled with a whole mess of emotions, but eventually he takes a deep breath and gazes up at a sky that’s been dyed impossibly blue by the heat and smog.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title makes a bit more sense now, huh?
> 
> Feel free to guess the shenanigans that might happen, now that we're finally jumping into some LEGIT Black Cat territory.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to keep Lance, y'know, Lance, while he's still doing some crazy cool assassin stuff. Kind of like how Train acted like a complete dweeb, but there was still some really scary stuff swimming underneath that facade. 
> 
> Also, let the worst first-impressions ever known to man begin an equally disastrous partnership.


End file.
